>"  ,    )( 


9 


I 


I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


/  <r"L^W/ 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 


BEING    CERTAIN    PASSAGES   IN 
THE    LIFE     OF    A    GENIUS 

BY 
HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


Copyrighty  1910 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


GIFT 

i 


\\'( 


0 


Vift 


TO 

THE  MEMORY   OF 
MY  WIFE 


CONTENTS 

FACE 

Prologue 3 

BOOK   I 

CHAPTER 

I.     The  Vicar  Entertains  Misgivings         .         .  37 

II.     Concerning  Mary  Pignerol           •         •         •  53 

III.  The  Fleshpots  of  Egypt     ....  67 

IV.  In  the  New  Forest 87 

V.     Solomon's  Garden      .....  98 

VI.     Which  Introduces  Some  Celebrities      .         .  121 

VII.     David  Crosses  the  Rubicon         .         .         .135 

VIII.     "The  Peer  and  the  Peri"  .         ...  148 

IX.     The  Waters  of  Marah        ....  164 

X.     At  the  Archdale  Arms         .         .         .         .174 

XI.     David  Asks  Questions        ....  191 

XII.     In  the  Month  of  May         ....  208 

XIII.  David  Sees  with  Detachment      .         .         .  217 

BOOK  II 

XIV.  On  the  Other  Side 223 

XV.     The  Soul  of  a  Child 244 

XVI.     Mary's  Voice 252 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  m 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.     The  Conditions 267 

XVIII.     The  Creed  of  a  Happy  Man    ...  285 

XIX.     Mollie  Picks  Up  Stitches  ....  297 

XX.     Mollie  Sees  Two  Roads   .        .         .        .312 

XXI.     In  the  Garden 325 

XXII.     Through  the  Mists 333 

XXIII.  The  Awakening 346 

XXIV,  The  Heavenly  Note        ....  353 


"And,  in  order  to  teach  men  how  to  be  satisfied,  it  is 
necessary  fully  to  understand  the  art  and  joy  of  humble  life 
— this  at  present,  of  all  arts  and  sciences,  being  the  one  most 
needing  study.  Humble  life,  that  is  to  say,  proposing  to 
itself  no  future  exaltation,  but  only  a  sweet  continuance ; 
not  excluding  the  idea  of  foresight,  but  wholly  of  foresorrow, 
and  taking  no  troublous  thought  for  coming  days  :  so,  also, 
not  excluding  the  idea  of  providence,  or  provision,  but 
wholly  of  accumulation  ;  —  the  life  of  domestic  affection  and 
domestic  peace,  full  of  sensitiveness  to  all  elements  of  cost- 
less and  kind  pleasure  ;  —  therefore,  chiefly  to  the  loveliness 
of  the  natural  world."—  John  Ruskin. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

PROLOGUE 

WHICH    DESCRIBES    A    LEAP    IN    THE    DARK 

DAVID  was  singing  to  himself,  pianissimo,  while 
he  put  away  the  scores  used  at  the  afternoon 
practice.  Sebastian  Fermor,  tired  after  a  long 
day's  work,  listened  with  half-shut  eyes  and  a  faint  smile 
upon  his  face.  Centuries  ago  —  so  it  seemed  —  he  had 
sung  like  this  child,  with  freshness  and  spontaneity. 
Each  note  was  articulate  and  produced  without  effort: 
a  result  of  training.  But  the  quality  which  challenged 
attention  was  an  indescribable  sweetness:  a  pene- 
trating delicacy  of  tone,  so  sublimated  of  grossness 
and  yet  so  vital,  so  dominant,  that  it  could  be  heard 
above  the  voices  of  the  full  choir  and  the  thunders  of 
the  organ.  When  enthusiastic  spinsters  acclaimed 
the  boy's  voice  as  "heavenly,"  the  adjective  appeared 
inevitable.  And  during  many  years  Fermor  had 
laboured  to  produce  this  "heavenly  note"  upon  the 
organ  by  mechanical  means.  Those  interested  in  such 
matters  know  what  Fermor  has  done  for  that  instrument, 
but  his  achievements  were  built  upon  failure.  He  had 
sought  for  a  pearl  of  transcendent  beauty,  and  so  search- 
ing had  found  half  a  dozen  gems  of  moderate  lustre. 

3 


4  PROLOGUE 

From  beneath  his  eyelids  he  looked  at  David. 
Insensibly  the  lines  upon  his  plain  impassive  face 
softened.  A  stranger  with  any  powers  of  observation 
would  have  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  a  father 
was  gazing  fondly  at  his  son.  Nor  would  this  have 
evoked  surprise,  for  the  boy  was  so  beautiful  that  the 
spinsters  aforesaid  apprehended  his  premature  decease. 
Miss  Rachel  Callow,  whom  we  shall  meet  presently, 
had  said  to  her  intimate  friend,  Caroline  Jubber, 
the  Vicar  of  Sherborne's  daughter:  "We  cannot 
hope  to  keep  the  darling  long!"  Between  the  darling 
and  these  too  fond  ladies,  Fermor  had  interposed  his 
own  personality.  He  disliked  sugar,  being  a  dispenser 
of  salt.  And  when  he  discovered  that  the  boy  had  a 
sense  of  humour,  so  rare  in  choristers,  he  felt  easier 
in  his  mind.  Once,  after  the  nauseating  experience 
of  seeing  the  darling  hugged  by  a  dozen  well-meaning 
but  foolish  virgins,  more  or  less  befuddled  by  too  strong 
tea  and  emotional  religion,  he  had  said  austerely: 
"Don't  let  these  women  spoil  you,  David!"  Where- 
upon, to  his  amusement,  the  urchin  had  responded 
with  a  wink  of  the  eye  and  a  gesture  familiar  to  stew- 
ards upon  Channel  boats.  But  when  Fermor  laughed, 
the  boy  assumed  the  senior's  austerity  and  said:  "I 
suppose,  sir,  it's  rot  to  talk  of  being  spoiled.  One 
spoils  oneself,  doesn't  one?"  And  to  this,  Fermor 
replied:  "Yes." 

As  he  gazed  at  the  boy,  he  was  reflecting  that  the 
face  matched  the  voice.  Each  had  the  "heavenly" 
quality.  The  eyes,  in  particular,  set  far  apart  and 


PROLOGUE  5 

shaded  with  thick  dark  lashes,  exhibited  the  tint  of 
a  rain-washed  sky,  the  true  cobalt,  impossible  to  repro- 
duce as  a  pigment  because  of  its  perfect  clarity.  The 
brow,  finely  developed,  added  splendour  to  the  eyes. 
Fermor,  within  five  minutes  of  meeting  David,  had 
recognized  perceptive  faculties,  and  an  intelligence 
which  dazzled  because  it  seemed  to  be  concentrated 
upon  what  appealed  most  strongly  to  himself  —  Art. 
Without  training,  without  experience,  without  the 
environment  which  is,  perhaps,  better  than  training 
or  experience,  the  child  revealed  the  artist. 

Meanwhile,  Fermor  was  considering  physical  rather 
than  mental  attributes.  David's  colouring  was  red, 
white,  and  blue:  Angelus  et  angelus.  Translating  an- 
gelus  as  messenger  rather  than  angel,  Fermor  had 
come  to  believe  that  the  child  had  a  message  to  deliver. 
And,  if  so,  what  ?  Of  that  he  was  not  certain,  although 
he  asked  the  question  often.  He  had  no  suspicion 
that  it  was  about  to  be  answered  within  a  few  minutes. 

The  lower  part  of  the  face  held  his  glance.  The 
symmetry  of  nose  and  chin  and  mouth,  the  modelling 
of  the  cheeks,  the  texture  of  the  hair,  indicated  sensi- 
bility and  refinement,  but  the  lips  a  thought  too  full 
distracted  attention  from  a  chin  obstinate  rather  than 
strong.  For  the  rest,  the  body  was  slender,  but  finely 
proportioned. 

A  messenger  of  the  Most  High ! 

Detesting  phrases,  abhorring  artificial  sentiment, 
Fermor  had  condensed  a  score  of  nebulous  specula- 
tions into  those  six  words.  The  boy  was  charged  with 


6  PROLOGUE 

a  message,  and  he  carried  his  credentials  upon  his 
face. 

At  this  moment,  Fermor's  eyes  closed.  And, 
instantly,  the  notes  of  the  child's  voice  penetrated 
to  the  core  of  his  being.  David  kept  on  singing  the 
same  theme,  as  if  obsessed  by  it.  The  theme  did  not 
appeal  to  Fermor;  it  was  melodious  and  sugary, 
somewhat  reminiscent  of  Gung'l  or  Strauss.  The 
odd  thing  was  that  Fermor  had  never  heard  it 
before. 

"What's  that?"   he  asked. 

"It's  mine,"  said  the  boy. 

He  came  forward,  smiling. 

"  It's  mine,"  he  repeated.     "  Do  you  think  it  pretty  ? " 

"It's  pretty  enough,  too  pretty,  for  that  matter. 
You've  been  listening  to  a  barrel  organ." 

"I  was  down  by  the  river  this  morning,  and  it  came 
into  my  head.  I  can't  get  it  out.  I  didn't  know  I 
was  singing  it.  Did  it  disturb  you  ?" 

"No.     Sing  it  again!" 

The  boy  laughed  and  obeyed.     Fermor  stood  up. 

"We'll  see  what  Tweedledee  says  to  it." 

Tweedledee  was  the  name  of  the  ancient  piano 
which  stood  open  day  and  night  in  Fermor's  room. 
Opposite  to  it  was  a  harmonium,  known  as  Tweedle- 
dum. Fermor  played  the  theme,  simply  at  first, 
and  then  with  variations.  He  tried  common  time 
and  waltz  time.  When  he  played  waltz  time,  the 
boy  danced.  Fermor  left  the  piano. 

"Sing  some  other  things  of  your  own!" 


PROLOGUE  7 

"I  can't.  They  come  and  go.  I  shall  have  for- 
gotten this  by  to-morrow.  ' 

"I  shan't,"  said  Fermor.  "And  look  here,  when 
these  tunes  come  to  you,  you  run  to  me,  and  I'll  write 
'em  down --just  for  fun,"  he  added  hastily,  having 
a  nightmare  vision  of  the  delicate  head  swelled  to 
monstrous  proportions.  He  made  a  gesture  of  dis- 
missal, and  the  boy  went  to  the  door.  There,  he 
paused  shyly,  fidgeting  with  his  hands  and  feet. 

"Mr.  Fermor?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Am  I  going  to  London  ?" 

Fermor  frowned,  sensible  that  the  question  —  asked 
daily  for  ten  days  —  could  not  have  been  answered 
before.  Now,  he  replied  with  finality: 

"No." 

The  boy  danced,  his  eyes  radiated  joy  and  thanks- 
giving. 

"Hooray!    I  am  glad." 

"Why  are  you  glad?" 

"Because  I  shall  stay  here  with  you." 

"There  are  thirty  years  between  us.  You  like  to 
be  with  me  ?" 

He  spoke  gravely,  trying  to  measure  this  immense 
gulf,  and,  measuring  it,  to  bridge  it  with  words.  The 
boy's  voice,  as  he  answered,  was  as  grave  as  the  man's. 

"I  would  sooner  be  with  you,  sir,  than  with  any 
one  else  in  the  world." 

Fermor  was  sensible  of  an  emotion  so  poignant 
and  yet  so  delightful  that  he  flushed.  The  boy's 


8  PROLOGUE 

sincerity  bridged  the  gulf.  The  pair  met  as  equals 
upon  friendship's  highway.  And  yet  an  immediate 
difficulty  presented  itself.  The  boy's  confession  of 
friendship  demanded  a  response,  an  acknowledgment 
of  an  affection  hitherto  suppressed. 

"I  have  the  same  feeling  for  you,  David,"  said 
Fermor  slowly.  "I  wish  that  you  were  my  son." 

"I've  never  thought  of  you  as  a  father." 

He  spoke  in  a  hard  voice.  Fermor  took  his  hand, 
and  held  it  firmly.  The  boy's  father  had  beaten  him. 

"Yes,  yes;  we  are  friends,  pals.  Let's  leave  it  at 
that." 

The  boy  smiled  joyously,  and  went  his  way. 

When  he  had  gone,  Fermor  wrote  down  the  air 
which  the  child  had  sung.  Having  dated  it,  he  put 
the  sheet  of  music  into  an  envelope.  Upon  this  he 
wrote:  "First  sample  of  ore  from  a  promising  mine." 
Then  he  filled  his  pipe  and  went  back  to  his  chair, 
where  he  sat  for  half  an  hour,  thinking  of  the  boy  and 
his  future.  While  he  was  thinking,  the  simple,  pretty 
little  air,  so  charmingly  phrased,  so  delicately  articu- 
lated, went  flitting  through  his  head,  the  accompani- 
ment of  his  reflections.  It  became  the  medium  through 
which  the  "message"  was  delivered.  The  boy  might 
become  a  great  composer.  The  possibility  fired  this 
quiet,  self-effacing  man,  who  realized  that  his  interest 
in  others  was  too  lukewarm. 

For  some  weeks  a  crisis  had  impended.  Now  it 
was  passed.  The  boy  had  been  offered  a  place  in  a 


PROLOGUE  9 

great  London  choir,  and  with  it  a  liberal  education. 
He  was  an  orphan,  dependent  upon  an  aunt  who 
belonged  to  the  shifting  population.  At  any  moment 
she  might  leave  Sherborne,  taking  the  boy  with  her. 
In  brief,  the  London  offer  was  too  good  to  be  refused 
unless  Fermor  adopted  the  boy. 

He  had  told  himself  that  he  must  look  well  before 
he  leapt  into  what  the  judicious  might  call  a  perilous 
experiment.  But,  perhaps,  from  the  first  he  had 
known  that  he  would  leap,  and  that  the  marrow  of 
the  matter  was  the  expediency  of  speech  or  silence 
concerning  it.  Of  late  years  a  habit  of  silence  had 
imposed  itself  between  Fermor  and  the  people  amongst 
whom  he  lived  and  laboured.  Sherborne  spoke 
slightingly  of  the  Abbey  organist  as  odd.  The  la- 
dies whispered  to  each  other  that  he  must  be  the  hero 
of  some  romantic  tale.  Undoubtedly,  one  of  their 
sex  had  treated  shabbily  a  man  whose  chief  claim 
to  consideration  was  that  he  played  the  organ 
"divinely."  The  more  sentimental  interpolated  ro- 
mance into  his  music,  which  we  will  hasten  to  say 
was  severely  classical  and  ecclesiastical.  A  certain 
voluntary  was  pronounced  by  Miss  Rachel  Callow  to 
be  an  autobiography.  She  was  positive  that  Fermor's 
youth  had  been  stormy,  "  une  jeunesse  orageuse"  as 
she  put  it.  Caroline  Jubber,  a  woman  of  common 
sense,  making  allowance  for  the  fact  that  dear  Rachel 
fancied  her  French  accent,  admitted  that  Mr.  Fermor 
might  have  undergone  bludgeonings.  But  the  Vicar, 
her  father,  who  had  coached  Fermor  at  Oxford  and 


io  PROLOGUE 

never  lost  sight  of  him  since,  denied  this.  The  ladies 
were  unanimous  that  Dr.  Jubber  was  too  discreet  to 
tell  all  that  he  knew,  and  the  phrase  so  often  on  his 
thin  lips  affirming  his  quondam  pupil  to  be  "one  of 
the  best"  was  salted  and  peppered  in  a  dozen  primly 
furnished  drawing-rooms. 

We  will  say  at  once  that  Fermor  had  no  story,  and 
that  his  youth  had  been  exasperatingly  blameless. 
There  were  moments  when  this  oppressed  him.  He 
was  a  cadet  of  an  ancient  and  impoverished  Wessex 
family.  A  grandfather  had  distinguished  himself 
at  Trafalgar.  One  of  the  Fermors  was  said  to  have 
sailed  the  Spanish  Main  with  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
In  his  robuster  flights  of  fancy,  our  friend  imagined 
that  latent  in  him  lay  a  buccaneering  strain.  But 
this  refused  to  exhibit  itself  to  a  conventional  world 
even  in  his  music.  His  father,  some-time  leader  of 
the  Philharmonic  Society,  had  married  late  in  life 
the  daughter  of  an  eminent  organ-builder.  When 
we  add  that  Fermor  was  brought  up  to  believe  that 
John  Sebastian  Bach  was  the  greatest  man  that  had 
ever  lived,  we  begin  to  get  a  better  understanding 
of  him.  Before  he  was  out  of  his  teens,  he  was  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  works  of  Purcell,  Boyce, 
and  Tallis.  And  even  at  Oxford  he  spent  more  time 
with  the  old  masters  of  ecclesiastical  music  than  he 
did  with  the  young  misses  who  captivated  his  fellow 
undergraduates. 

Physically  ill-equipped  for  adventures  in  any  field 
except  that  of  Art,  he  had  vaguely  understood  before 


PROLOGUE  ii 

he  was  breeched  that  he  was  not  so  strong  as  other 
boys.  Imperfect  sight  had  made  him  a  duffer  at 
games;  and  his  doctor  had  warned  him  that  he  could 
not  undertake  any  violent  form  of  exercise  with  impu- 
nity. Into  Art  he  was  driven  under  pressure  of  his 
father's  ambition  rather  than  his  own.  He  had  asked 
permission  to  enter  the  organ-building  establishment, 
where,  indeed,  he  spent  some  of  the  pleasantest  hours 
of  his  life.  After  leaving  Oxford  his  "Office  for  the 
Holy  Communion,"  set  to  music  in  the  key  of  D,  aroused 
an  expectation  which  succeeding  compositions  never 
justified.  To  be  candid,  his  work  was  lacking  in 
originality,  and  he  knew  it.  He  could  write  fugues 
that  an  amateur  might  mistake  for  those  of  John 
Sebastian;  but  a  critic  had  said  there  was  more  Bach 
than  bite  in  them.  As  a  distraction  from  composi- 
tion, he  fell  in  love  with  the  mechanism  of  the  instru- 
ment, and  at  the  time  we  make  his  acquaintance 
had  patented  two  notable  improvements.  Surplus 
energy  was  expended  upon  the  study  of  Gothic 
architecture;  he  had  written  two  rather  remarkable 
papers  upon  the  correlation  of  colour,  form,  and 
sound. 

Till  he  was  forty  an  invalid  mother  stood  between 
him  and  marriage.  He  provided  a  home  for  her,  he 
played  piquet  with  her  every  evening;  he  submitted 
smilingly  to  her  tantrums.  But  when  she  died,  he 
continued  his  celibate  life,  refusing  invitations  as  before, 
discouraging,  almost  with  rudeness,  the  advances  of 
mothers  with  marriageable  daughters. 


iz  PROLOGUE 

Presently,  the  Vicar  bustled  in.  Dr.  Jubber  exuded 
reform  from  every  pore  of  his  skin.  And  he  scrubbed 
other  folk's  minds  as  vigorously  as  he  scrubbed  his 
own  face.  He  was  strong,  and  he  exulted  in  his 
strength.  He  greeted  Fermor  in  a  deep  vibrating 
voice,  which  poor  old  Tweedledee  attenuated  as  if 
with  a  sigh. 

"Are  we   going  to   keep   little   David   Archdale?" 

"I  am." 

The  short  crisp  answer  from  a  man  whose  darling 
sin,  perhaps,  was  irresolution,  took  some  of  the  wind 
from  the  Vicar's  bellows.  He  sat  down,  staring  at 
Fermor,  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  Fermor  and  he 
were  very  old  friends,  but  each  was  capable  of  mis- 
understanding the  other:  a  fact  which  added  zest  to 
their  intercourse. 

"When  you  came  in,"  continued  Fermor,  in  the  voice 
of  a  man  who  has  never  known  what  it  is  to  feel  fit 
at  the  end  of  a  day's  work,  "I  had  just  definitely 
decided  to  adopt  the  child." 

"Bless  my  soul!"   ejaculated  the  Vicar. 

"And  if  you  are  not  in  too  great  a  hurry,  I  should 
like  to  talk  the  matter  over." 

"By  all  means.  Isn't  this  a  leap  in  the  dark, 
Fermor  ?" 

"Yes.     That  makes  it  —  exciting." 

"Exciting?"  The  Vicar  stared  at  his  organist,  who 
had  been  his  pupil.  In  a  sense  he  was  trying  to  visu- 
alize a  man  whom  he  had  not  met  before. 

"My  life  has  been  so  unexciting.     I  am  not  com- 


PROLOGUE  13 

plaining,  but  to  you  I  can  admit  that  I  hanker  after 


excitement." 


"Well,  well,  well!" 

"You  are  astonished.  It  is  almost  as  if  we  had 
changed  places.  You  told  me  the  last  time  you  were 
here  that  a  quiet  life  was  beginning  to  charm  you.  It 
is  beginning  to  bore  me." 

The  Vicar  cleared  his  throat,  signalizing  that  he 
was  clearing  his  decks  for  action. 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  am  your  senior  by  fifteen  years. 
I  have  a  wife  and  seven  children.  If  you  want  excite- 
ment, marry!  Why  not?" 

Fermor  laughed,  holding  up  his  hands. 

"I  want  excitement  in  small  doses.  And  I  have 
a  singular  prejudice  against  marriages  of  conven- 


ience." 


"Pooh,  pooh!  You  underrate  yourself.  However, 
I  merely  indicated  a  short  cut  to  excitement.  What 
do  you  mean  by  adoption  ?" 

"Everything  humanly  possible.  The  boy  has  gifts 
denied  to  me.  I  have  something  which  may  be  useful 
to  him.  He  may  accomplish  my  ambitions.  I  feel 
that  I  could  begin  again  with  him.  And  I  want  to 
begin  again." 

"But  this  means,  if  I  know  you,  self-effacement." 

"Pilots  are  not  self-effacing  persons.  You  are  a 
sky-pilot,  and  I've  never  seen  you  look  so  happy  as 
when  you've  come  ashore  after  steering  some  cranky 
craft  into  harbourage." 

"Tut,  tut!"   said  the  Vicar. 


i4  PROLOGUE 

"I  am  speaking  to  you  as  I  could  speak  to  no  other 
man.  My  disabilities  have  been  a  burden  to  me. 
I  have  always  felt  out  of  it:  a  looker-on.  To-day, 
now  that  I  am  comparatively  free,  I  should  like  to 
mix  more  with  men  and  women.  I  know  that  I  am 
standing  in  a  circle  which  is  diminishing,  and  that  I 
am  hemmed  in  with  walls  of  my  own  building.  You 
have  done  your  best  to  rescue  me,  but  even  you  have 
failed.  This  boy  will  soar  —  Oh !  I  use  the  word 
advisedly  —  and  he  will  carry  me  with  him." 

"I  see,  but- 

"You  can  say  exactly  what  is  in  your  mind." 

"If  you  should  be  disappointed  — ?  Take  this 
boy  up  - 

"  But  he  is  going  to  take  me  up." 

"  There  you  beg  the  question.  Personally,  I  think 
he  is  a  fine  little  fellow,  with  a  voice  which  has  materi- 
ally increased  our  collections,  but  if  you  take  him 
up  and  he  does  not  take  you  up  —  if  he  should  let  you 
down  ?  What  then,  my  friend  ?" 

Fermor  hesitated. 

"It's  ten  to  one  on  .the  boy,"  he  said  drily.  "And," 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "if  the  thing  was  a  cer- 
tainty, where  would  be  the  excitement?" 

"You  feel  a  strong  interest  in  him  ?" 

There  was  a  pause.  When  Fermor  spoke  his  voice 
was  not  quite  steady.  Perhaps,  in  that  one  moment, 
he  computed  the  sum  total  of  those  blessings  which 
had  not  been  vouchsafed  to  him. 

"I  wish  he  were  my  own  son." 


PROLOGUE  15 

"What  is  his  feeling  toward  you  ?" 

But  Fermor  answered  evasively:  "He  likes  to  be 
with  me." 

The  Vicar  rose. 

"Obviously  the  matter  is  settled.  I  shall  watch 
the  experiment  with  keen  interest  and  sympathy. 
You  have  your  work  cut  out.  The  Devil  will  fight 
hard  for  that  youngster." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

The  Vicar  answered  drily:  "Because  I  knew  his 
father.  This  will  be  a  wrestling  match  between  hered- 
ity and  environment.  I  predict  plenty  of  excitement, 
not  now,  but  later." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Fermor. 

Within  a  few  minutes,  he  found  himself  walking 
with  slightly  accelerated  pace  toward  a  row  of  build- 
ings situate  in  a  part  of  Sherborne  known  as  Cold 
Harbour,  where  David's  maternal  aunt,  Miss  Vawdrey, 
occupied  genteel  lodgings.  Many  abbey  towns  to 
which  in  the  past  the  faithful  made  pilgrimage  have 
Cold  Harbours.  Here,  as  the  name  implies,  the  poorer 
pilgrims  found  chill  entertainment,  a  crust  of  bread 
and  a  glass  of  fair  water.  The  small  house,  wherein 
Miss  Vawdrey  had  found  rooms,  faced  a  high  red-brick 
wall,  carefully  constructed  to  hide  from  the  vulgar 
eye  a  charming  house  and  garden.  Sitting  at  her  win- 
dow, David's  aunt  was  able  to  admire  the  beautiful 
tone  of  the  bricks,  and  to  reflect,  possibly,  that  she 
was  and  must  remain  outside  such  pleasaunces  as  it 
enclosed.  She  painted  miniatures  badly,  but  her 


16  PROLOGUE 

prices  were  extremely  moderate;  and  she  never  exas- 
perated her  clients  by  exacting  long  sittings.  A  photo- 
graph sufficed  her,  which  she  reduced  to  miniature 
size  with  the  help  of  a  neat  apparatus  designed  for 
that  purpose.  Fermor  reminded  himself  that  Miss 
Vawdrey  might  refuse  to  part  with  her  nephew, 
although  gossip  said  that  he  was  regarded  by  her  as 
an  encumbrance.  She  belonged  —  we  have  observed 
-  to  our  floating  population.  To  remain  in  one 
place  meant  sinking.  In  a  town  the  size  of  Sher- 
borne,  rich  in  the  possession  of  many  well-to-do  families, 
Miss  Vawdrey  might  count  upon  exploiting  at  least 
fifty  clients.  When  she  left  a  good  "pitch"  she  was 
wise  enough  never  to  return  to  it.  We  have  her  own 
word  that,  despite  ill  fortune,  she  remained  a  perfect 
lady. 

Fermor  rang  the  bell,  which  tinkled  cheaply,  as  if 
it  were  sorry  for  itself.  David  opened  the  door,  smil- 
ing seraphically  when  he  saw  his  friend.  But  when 
Fermor  asked  for  Miss  Vawdrey,  the  imp  winked  - 
thereby  ceasing  to  look  like  an  angel  —  and  whis- 
pered - 

"She's  cross  as  two  sticks/' 

"Why?" 

"I  told  her  I  wasn't  going  to  London,  and  she  said 
that  she  would  have  something  to  say  about  that." 

Fermor  nodded,  writing  himself  down  an  ass.  Of 
course,  he  ought  to  have  spoken  to  the  aunt  first.  Now, 
with  the  perversity  of  an  injured  woman,  she  might 
interpose  obstacles. 


PROLOGUE  17 

The  boy  led  the  way  out  of  a  narrow  dismal  hall 
into  a  small  sitting-room,  characterized  by  Miss  Vaw- 
drey  as  the  Studio.  In  the  bow  window,  upon  a 
table  covered  with  red  plush,  were  samples  of  her 
art,  neatly  and  inexpensively  framed.  A  cottage 
piano,  back  to  the  wall,  stood  opposite  to  a  fireplace 
in  which  a  crinkled  cascade  of  tissue  paper  modestly 
revealed  itself  to  the  wondering  eye.  No  flowers  were 
to  be  seen  except  those  upon  the  carpet.  The  furni- 
ture, too  large  for  the  room,  and  bought  at  public 
auction,  was  depressingly  solid.  Fermor  told  himself 
that  it  would  endure  for  ever.  Chromo-lithographs 
hung  upon  the  walls.  The  boy,  watching  his  friend, 
and  vaguely  conscious  of  a  fall  in  the  temperature, 
said  hopefully:  "Rather  a  jolly  room,  isn't  it?" 

Through  the  window,  Fermor  could  see  the  insur- 
mountable wall.  He  heard  the  boy  saying:  "Perhaps 
it  doesn't  look  very  jolly  to  you,  but  if  you'd  seen  the 
rooms  we  had  at  Dorchester !" 

"Please  tell  Miss  Vawdrey  that  I  am  here." 

Upstairs,  the  lady  was  adding  a  few  touches  to  her 
toilet.  She  had  seen  Fermor  approaching,  and  it 
was  barely  possible  that  he  had  come  to  commission 
a  miniature,  or  to  pay  a  fellow-artist  a  belated  visit. 
Being  what  is  euphemistically  called  a  fine  woman, 
she  was  sensible  that  she  ought  to  appeal  to  a  rather 
under-sized  man.  With  deft  fingers,  she  produced 
an  impression  of  artistic  negligence.  Upon  a  billowy 
bosom,  which  an  admirer  had  once  compared  favour- 
ably with  that  of  Clyde,  she  pinned  a  bunch  of  violets; 


i8  PROLOGUE 

her  hair  presented  an  appearance  of  ordered  disorder; 
she  was  careful  not  to  remove  the  pinafore  in  which 
she  painted. 

Then,  smiling  graciously,  she  descended. 

Fermor  greeted  her  stiffly.  Miss  Vawdrey  prided 
herself  upon  being  a  daughter  of  Bohemia,  and,  in 
duologue  with  what  she  called  "understanding  per- 
sons," allowed  herself  a  liberty  of  speech  likely  to  be 
mistaken  by  Philistines  for  licence. 

"Pop  off,  David !"  she  commanded,  with  a  wave 
of  an  arm  whose  sleeve  terminated  at  the  elbow. 

David  vanished,  but  at  the  door  he  paused  and 
winked  for  the  third  time  on  that  memorable  after- 
noon. The  winks  indicated  a  full  acceptance  of  pal- 
ship,  and  as  such  tickled  the  humour  of  our  quiet 
friend,  but  they  revealed  also,  startlingly,  the  nature 
of  the  relations  between  aunt  and  nephew.  They 
said  plainly:  " You'll  have  larks  with  this  rum  old 
girl,  and  probably  ructions !" 

"Can  I  offer  you  a  cigarette?"   said  Miss  Vawdrey. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Fermor,  glancing  helplessly 
about  him.  His  eye  rested  upon  a  large  framed 
miniature. 

"David's  father,"  said  Miss  Vawdrey.  "A  very  fine 
man  —  aristocratic  looking,  if  I  may  say  so." 

"Very,"  murmured  Fermor. 

"When  my  poor  sister  died,"  she  continued,  "I 
promised  to  be  a  mother  to  David." 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  him,  Miss  Vawdrey." 

"Dear,    dear!     I    hoped    you    had    come    about    a 


PROLOGUE  19 

miniature.  I  should  esteem  it  an  honour  to  do  your 
head,  Mr.  Fermor.  Your  eyes,  you  know,  are  very 
remarkable.  I  always  say  what  I  think.  Positively, 
your  eyes  have  haunted  me." 

Our  unhappy  friend  blushed.  His  eyes  were 
remarkable.  They  were  gray,  finely  shaped,  and 
heavily  lidded,  the  lids  half  hiding  the  irids,  except 
upon  rare  occasions.  This  physical  peculiarity  gave 
to  the  face  a  dreamy,  suffused  expression.  The 
delicate  arch  of  the  eyebrow  might  have  belonged  to 
the  poet  Shelley. 

"Dr.  Jubber,  I  believe,  laid  before  you  the  London 
offer  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did,"  the  lady  replied  tartly,  "and  he 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  I  should  jump  at 


it." 


"It's  an  offer  that  one  could  hardly  decline  unless 
something  better  presented  itself." 

Miss  Vawdrey's  face  hardened. 

"Not  an  hour  ago,  David  raced  in  here  to  tell  me 
that  he  was  not  going.  I  have  hardly  been  treated 
with  courtesy,  Mr.  Fermor." 

"I  apologize.  It's  entirely  my  fault.  Something 
better  has  turned  up,  and,  very  indiscreetly,  I  hinted 
as  much  to  the  child.  Pray  forgive  me!" 

"Not  another  word,  I  beg." 

"The  something  better  is  this:  a  person  of  moderate 
means  wishes  to  adopt  David.  He  will  charge  himself 
with  the  boy's  education,  start  him  in  some  profession, 
and  eventually  provide  for  him." 


20  PROLOGUE 

"Indeed?     Do  I  know  this  person,  Mr.  Fermor?" 

"He  is  talking  to  you." 

"You  want  to  adopt  David  ?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Vawdrey  said  majestically: 

"Neither  Dr.  Jubber  nor  you  seem  to  have  con- 
sidered me.  I  am  the  child's  guardian,  and  his  near- 
est living  relation.  For  two  years  I  have  supported 
him.  You  talk  of  taking  him  from  me  as  if  it  were 
a  foregone  conclusion  that  I  should  give  him  up." 

Fermor,  for  the  first  time,  raised  his  eyelids.  His 
glance  was  penetrating  and  disconcerting,  as  any 
member  of  the  Abbey  choir  could  have  testified. 

"Dr.  Jubber  and  I  took  for  granted  that  you,  as 
the  boy's  guardian,  would  consider  what  was  best 
for  him.  When  I  engaged  him  to  sing,  you  admitted 
that  you  were  unable  to  pay  anything  toward  his  edu- 
cation. He  has  attended,  I  believe,  the  National 
School.  You  made  me  understand  that  your  inability 
to  afford  a  more  liberal  education  was  a  grief  to 
you." 

"It  is." 

"Then  again,  the  exercise  of  your  own  profession 
takes  you  from  town  to  town,  and  each  year  the  boy's 
expenses  will  increase." 

"Unless  he  contributes  something  toward  his  own 
support." 

"  By  singing  in  paid  choirs  ?" 

"By  singing  in  public  concerts.  I'm  not  a  fool, 
Mr.  Fermor,  and  I  happen  to  know  that  people  are 


PROLOGUE  21 

raving  about  this  boy.  He's  a  draw.  He's  worth 
money,  perhaps  a  lot  of  money." 

"Within  three  years  at  most,  probably  before,  his 
voice  will  break." 

"Of  course.  But  in  three  years  he  might  earn 
enough  to  pay  for  even  a  better  education  than  you 
could  give  him." 

Fermor  was  silent. 

"He's  clever  and  handsome.  He  might  make  a 
hit  on  the  stage." 

She  wriggled  slightly  beneath  his  steady  glance, 
and  then  continued  defiantly:  "His  mother  was 
an  actress.  Perhaps  you  disapprove  of  the  stage  ? 
Is  your  offer  made  out  of  pity  ?" 

"No." 

"  You  are  almost  a  stranger  to  me." 

"But  not  to  the  boy." 

"David  likes  you.  But  he  likes  everybody  who 
is  kind  to  him,  and  most  people  are  kind  to  him.  If 
you  adopt  him,  and,  mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  I  shall 
let  him  go,  what  do  you  expect  to  get  out  of  it  ?" 

"It's  not  easy  to  answer  that  question,  Miss  Vaw- 
drey.  I  may  get  disappointment." 

"If  he  grows  up  like  his  father,  you  will." 

She  spoke  trenchantly.  Fermor  smiled,  remember- 
ing what  the  Vicar  had  said.  A  fight  —  quite  other 
than  what  he  had  anticipated  —  was  already  on  his 
hands.  And  the  excitement  of  it  began  to  thrill  his 
too  stagnant  pulses.  He  said  with  dignity  - 

"If  I  have  treated  you  with  any  lack  of  considera- 


22  PROLOGUE 

tion,  I  am  sincerely  sorry.  I  have  a  personal  interest 
in  the  matter,  how  personal  I  am  not  quite  able  to 
measure.  I  think  I  see  in  this  child  the  makings  of 
a  genius.  Long  ago,  I  presumed  to  believe  that  I 
might  do  something  myself,  something  worth  while, 
but  it  has  been  ordered  otherwise.  I  should  like  to 
see  another  profiting  by  my  mistakes,  avoiding  the 
pitfalls  which  I  could  point  out,  reaching  the  goal 
which  I  shall  never  attain.  If  you  will  allow  me, 
I  shall  try  to  make  the  running  for  David." 

Her  eyes  fell.  She  was  a  hard  woman,  soured  by 
the  struggle  to  earn  her  bread,  and  sensible  that  for 
her,  as  for  the  man  opposite,  the  colour  of  life  was 
turning  gray.  She  raised  her  head  slowly,  and  saw 
the  wall,  to  her  the  symbol  of  a  mean  and  spiteful 
exclusiveness.  Past  the  dingy  little  house,  which  she 
must  soon  leave  for  another  just  like  it,  or  even  more 
dreary,  hurried  the  foot-passengers:  men  and  women 
returning  home  after  the  day's  work.  For  the  most 
part  they  walked  wearily,  looking  neither  to  right  nor 
left,  intent  upon  their  own  thoughts.  Suddenly,  she 
turned  to  Fermor,  sitting  silent  before  her. 

"You  are  an  artist/'  she  said  abruptly. 

He  made  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"Once    I    thought    so.     I    call    myself,    to-day,    an 


artisan." 


"  I  am  an  artisan,  you  are  an  artist.  To  me,  a  true 
artist  is  one  who  would  make  sacrifices  for  Art,  who, 
at  a  pinch,  would  subordinate  his  own  ambitions  for 
Art.  I  was  never  like  that.  And  I  never  shall  be. 


PROLOGUE  23 

Heavens!  That  I  should  confess  it  to  you!  Well, 
you  have  made  an  appeal  to  the  miserable  atom  in 
me  that  is  still  artist.  You  can  have  the  boy." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  try  to  justify  the  sacrifice 
on  your  part." 

She  laughed  flippantly. 

"  My  cards  are  face  up  on  the  table.  I  am  not  sorry 
to  be  relieved  of  a  tedious  responsibility.  But  I  did 
want  to  get  my  knife  into  you  and  the  Vicar.  You've 
been  too  honest  for  me.  All  the  same,  I  warn  you 
that  David  is  not  the  little  angel  which  you  and  some 
idiotic  women  seem  to  think  him." 

Fermor  laughed. 

"Seriously,  Miss  Vawdrey,  do  you  suppose  that  a 
humble  person  like  myself  would  presume  to  under- 
take the  care  of  an  angel  ?" 

"Seriously,  Mr.  Fermor,  I  think  you  are  buying  a 
pig  in  a  poke,  instead  of  a  chorister  from  the  heavenly 
choir.  The  boy's  father  was  clever,  good-for-nothing,  a 
reckless  sensualist  who  thought  he  married  beneath 
him  when  he  took  my  pretty  sister  from  the  boards 
of  a  provincial  theatre.  Fortunately  for  David,  he 
is  dead,  as  you  know.  I  keep  his  miniature  for  busi- 
ness purposes,  but  it  always  reminds  me  that  David  may 
turn  out  like  him.  Well,  do  you  wish  to  amuse  yourself 
by  telling  the  kid  that  you  want  to  adopt  him?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide." 

"I'll  send  him  to  you  to-morrow." 

"At  eleven?" 

"At  eleven." 


24  PROLOGUE 

Next  day,  Fermor  woke  early  and  went  for  a  stroll. 
He  lingered  for  a  moment  beneath  the  yew  trees  in 
the  Abbey  Close,  and  paused  again  when  he  came 
to  the  Lady  Chapel,  carefully  examining  some  of 
the  stones  beneath  the  escutcheon  of  Edward  VI. 
These  stones,  which  were  crumbling  away  because 
they  had  been  improperly  laid  by  careless  masons, 
always  exasperated  him.  Set  with  the  right  surface 
exposed  to  the  destroying  elements,  they  would  have 
presented  as  firm  and  youthful  a  complexion  as  other 
and  far  older  parts  of  the  Abbey.  He  frowned,  mut- 
tering to  himself  while  he  strolled  on  through  the 
narrow  passage  which  leads  to  Abbot  Mere's  Conduit 
and  thence  into  Cheap  Street.  At  the  Conduit  he  drank 
some  water,  not  because  he  was  particularly  thirsty, 
but  for  the  sentimental  reason  that  so  many  stout 
masons  and  good  monks  had  slaked  their  thirst  at  the 
same  fountain.  Then,  more  briskly,  he  mounted  the 
quaint,  narrow,  winding  street  of  ancient  houses  built 
of  all  sizes  and  at  all  angles.  Fermor  had  a  kindly 
glance  for  Elizabethan,  Jacobean,  Georgian,  and 
Victorian.  He  loved  bricks,  he  adored  stone,  and  he 
was  not  too  contemptuous  of  time-mellowed  stucco. 
The  fact  is  he  permitted  himself  to  stare  at  human 
habitations,  whereas  he  was  too  shy  to  scrutinize  closely 
the  people  who  dwelt  in  them.  His  interest  in  houses 
was  inspired  by  his  interest  in  people,  but  he  told  him- 
self that  he  did  know  a  lot  about  architecture  and  very 
little  about  architects,  considering  mankind  as  the 
builders  of  themselves  and  their  dwelling-places. 


PROLOGUE  25 

David's  adoption  was  the  daring  expression  of  a  crav- 
ing to  know  more. 

Having  reached  Green  Hill,  he  returned  home  by 
Back  Abbey,  where  he  was  certain  to  meet  boys  running 
or  crawling  to  early  school.  Many  of  them  he  knew; 
and  he  was  pleasurably  aware  that  he  enjoyed  a  mild 
popularity  amongst  them.  They  capped  him,  a  salute 
punctiliously  acknowledged.  Occasionally,  the  more 
ardent  confided  some  secret  joy  or  trouble,  which 
flattered  him  enormously,  although  he  was  painfully 
aware  that  he  did  not  quite  rise  to  the  high  level  of 
these  artless  outpourings.  Full  of  sympathy  for  youth, 
and  young  himself  inasmuch  as  what  was  fresh  and 
clean  and  enthusiastic  appealed  to  him  irresistibly, 
he  could  never  overcome  his  detestable  shyness.  He 
said  less  than  might  warrantably  be  expected,  because 
he  desired  to  say  so  much  more. 

In  the  quadrangle  he  paused  again,  watching  the 
boys  streaming  into  the  rather  fusty  class-rooms 
beneath  the  library.  Long  ago  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  public-school  life  —  given  present 
social  conditions  —  was  a  necessary  evil.  Most  boys 
muddled  through;  and  at  the  end,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  it  was  a  nice  matter  to  adjust  loss  and  gain. 
And  a  thousand  times  at  least  he  had  asked  himself 
the  question:  "What  should  I  do  with  a  boy  of  my 
own?" 

Now  he  had  a  boy  of  his  own. 

He  sat  down  near  the  Cloisters.  Upon  a  gargoyle 
hard  by  was  a  raven.  He  stared  inquiringly  at 


26  PROLOGUE 

Fermor,  with  his  shining  head  on  one  side.  Fermor 
took  a  box  from  his  pocket  and  extracted  three 
small  cubes  of  raw  beef.  The  raven  flapped 
down  beside  him  and  ate  his  breakfast,  allowing 
Fermor  to  scratch  his  head,  a  privilege  extended 
to  few. 

The  boys  had  disappeared,  but  from  the  open 
windows  came  the  hum  of  voices.  Fermor  looked 
upward.  It  was  early  May,  but  April  still  lingered 
on  earth  and  sky.  The  heavens  were  full  of  small 
fleecy  clouds,  white  as  the  lambs  in  the  meadows  which 
border  the  Yeo.  They  seemed  to  be  browsing  upon 
azure  fields,  unwilling  to  move,  yet  conveying  in  their 
passivity  the  instinct  of  motion.  The  sun  floating 
lazily  upward  was  faintly  obscured  by  filmy  vapours. 
During  the  night  there  had  been  a  touch,  no  more, 
of  frost.  Upon  the  grass  in  the  landscape  shimmered 
innumerable  tiny  crystals,  each  cut  more  perfectly 
than  any  brilliant.  To  a  lover  of  colour  and  form, 
the  general  effect  was  superlative.  And  to  Fermor, 
colour  and  form  could  be  transmuted  into  sound. 
The  subtle  vibrations  which  produced  the  one  trans- 
posed themselves  into  the  other.  But,  in  his  case, 
the  magical  change  introduced  harmonies  with  which 
he  was  familiar.  Nothing  original  came  to  him. 
For  instance,  the  ephemeral  effects  of  this  May  morn- 
ing were  set  to  Mendelssohn's  "Bee's  Wedding." 
Fairies  seemed  to  be  playing  upon  muted  strings. 
Again,  when  he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  huge  square 
tower  of  the  Abbey,  the  aerial  strains  of  the  poet 


PROLOGUE  27 

melted  away,  and  one  of  Boyce's  stately  anthems 
pealed  upon  the  silence. 

Then  he  thought:  "What  will  these  things  whisper 
to  the  boy  ?" 

And  it  would  be  his  lot  to  set  these  things  forth, 
to  exhibit  them  to  young  eyes  and  an  eager  mind. 
Not  an  object  in  earth  and  sky,  from  the  filmy  veil 
of  mist  melting  in  the  sun  to  the  immemorial  stones 
of  the  Abbey,  but  had  its  message:  its  Jubilate,  its 
Te  Deum,  and  its  Miserere. 

He  rose  up,  smiling,  his  plain  face  transfigured  by 
the  faith  that  a  triumph  withheld  from  itself  might  be 
vouchsafed  to  another. 

At  eleven,  to  the  minute,  David  appeared  in  Fermor's 
room.  Miss  Vawdrey,  with  possibly  an  ironic  sense 
of  the  situation,  had  imposed  a  white  sailor  suit  fresh 
from  the  wash.  Perhaps  she  had  taken  particular 
pains  to  enhance  the  commercial  value  of  goods  which 
exposed  for  sale  or  hire  elsewhere  might  have  brought 
a  snug  sum  to  herself.  Fermor,  however,  paid  little 
attention  to  clothes.  He  liked  children  to  be  clean, 
at  any  rate  in  the  morning,  and  he  abominated  badly 
made  boots. 

"Got  a  new  song  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"  No.  I  say,  sir,  what's  up  ?  Auntie  won't  speak,  but 
I'm  so  excited  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  And  I  ought 
to  be  at  school.  Why  did  she  rig  me  out  in  this  suit  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  going  for  a  walk  with  me.  Where 
shall  we  go  ?  Up  or  down  ?" 


28  PROLOGUE 

As  he  put  the  simple  question,  he  attached  an  absurd 
importance  to  the  child's  answer. 

"To   Jerusalem   Hill.     Let's   get   as   high    as   ever 


we  can/3 


"Right!    And  we'll  take  something  to  eat." 

"That  just  settles  it." 

"Settles  what?" 

"You  said  yesterday  that  we  were  going  to  be  pals. 
I've  thought  of  nothing  else.  It  blew  my  new  song 
bang  out  of  my  head.  Well,  it's  easy  enough  to  talk 
about  being  pals.  But  I  wondered  how  you  were 
going  to  prove  it.  This  proves  it." 

They  set  forth,  Fermor  carrying  a  fishing  creel 
wherein  to  stow  the  luncheon,  which  David  selected 
with  evident  appreciation  of  the  good  things  to  be 
found  in  a  tuck-shop.  Curious  to  test  the  child,  he 
said: 

"You  have  a  free  hand!     Buy  whatever  you  like." 

"  But  what  do  you  like,  sir  ?" 

"I  eat  everything  which  is  set  before  me.  So  did 
St.  Paul." 

"Do  you  think  St.  Paul  liked  sausage  rolls  ?" 

"We  must  ask  the  Vicar.  Oatmeal  cake,  some 
fresh  butter,  and  a  cream  cheese  will  nourish  me 
sufficiently  till  tea-time." 

They  set  forth  to  climb  the  slopes,  leading  to  the 
Lovers'  Walk.  As  soon  as  they  had  crossed  the  rail- 
way, David  slipped  his  hand  into  Fermor's.  No  other 
action,  no  word,  could  have  so  foreshadowed  the 
significance  of  their  future  relations.  Then  he  reflected 


PROLOGUE  29 

with  an  odd  pang  of  jealousy,  that  this  might  be  a 
habit.  He  remembered  the  aunt's  tart  words:  "  David 
likes  everybody  who  is  kind  to  him." 

"You  have  lots  of  friends,  David  ?" 

David  considered  the  question  before  he  replied  - 

"They  say  so." 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"People  call  'emselves  my  friends,  and  they  think 
that  settles  it.  Miss  Callow  says  I'm  her  darling.  It 
makes  me  sick.  And  Miss  Jubber  asked  me  to  spend 
an  afternoon  with  her,  but  she  talked  the  whole  time 
to  somebody  else,  and  I  had  to  amuse  myself  with 

her  parrot.  I  tried  to — to He  stopped  suddenly, 

shaking  with  laughter. 

"What  did  you  try  to  do?" 

"If  we're  pals  I  must  tell  you.  I  tried  to  teach 
it  to  say  'damn,'  but,  by  Golly!  it  could  say  it  already. 
Fancy  a  parrot  living  in  the  Abbey  Close  saying 
'damn'!" 

"  My  sense  of  what  is  fitting  reels  at  the  thought  of 
it." 

"Auntie  says  that  nearly  all  women  are  rotters. 
Auntie  is  a  oner  to  say  what  she  thinks,  but  she  wouldn't 
speak  a  word  this  morning.  Never  saw  her  so  queer. 
And  of  course  I  knew  she  was  bottling  something  up." 

"I'm  going  to  unbottle  it,  when  we  get  to  the  top 
of  the  hill." 

"I  have  the  funniest  kind  of  squirmy  feeling  in  my 
inside." 

At  the  summit  of  Jerusalem  they  sat  down  beneath 


30  PROLOGUE 

an  immense  fir,  flanked,  lower  down  the  hill,  by  two 
glorious  beeches  now  in  full  leaf.  The  oaks  and 
thorns  were  out  also,  but  the  prudent  ash,  with  a  mem- 
ory as  green  as  its  unborn  foliage  of  late  May  frosts, 
displayed  bare  branches  against  the  tender  skies. 
Below  stretched  a  wide  expanse  of  turf;  to  the  left 
the  wooded  slopes  ran  sharply  into  the  park,  and 
beyond,  palely  blue,  rose  Ham  Hill,  whose  quarries 
had  furnished  the  Benedictines  with  the  stones  of  which 
their  Abbey  Church  was  built.  In  the  middle  of  the 
picture  stood  the  Castle,  enbosomed  in  trees,  the  mel- 
low tints  of  its  curious  gray  stucco  shining  softly  in 
the  sun.  Beyond  was  the  town,  dominated  by  the 
Abbey,  whose  massive  tower  had  looked  down  upon 
generations  of  men. 

"A  princely  domain!"   exclaimed  Fermor. 

"Rather  hard   luck  that  it  belongs  to  one  man." 

Fermor  smiled,  thinking  of  the  high  wall  in  front 
of  Miss  Vawdrey's  lodgings  in  Cold  Harbour. 

"You  have  great  possessions  too,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I,  sir?" 

"Assuredly.  You  are  one  of  the  lucky  few,  David. 
You  have  health,  strength,  good  looks,  and,  perhaps, 
genius.  In  my  opinion  you  are  richer  than  the  Squire, 
even  if  he  does  own  seven  and  twenty  thousand  acres 
of  land  in  Dorest.  Also  —  you  are  young." 

"  It's  jolly  to  be  young,"  said  David. 

He  lay  back  amongst  the  bracken  spikes  just  begin- 
ning to  uncurl  their  pale  green  fronds.  Behind,  in 
the  beeches  which  Pope  planted,  a  couple  of  pigeons 


PROLOGUE  31 

were  cooing.  From  the  top  of  these  lordly  trees  might 
be  seen  Glastonbury  and  Alfred's  Tower.  Beyond 
lay  Sedgmoor  and  Severn's  silver  sea. 

Fermor  recalled  the  men  of  Wessex,  the  kings  and 
statesmen  and  bold  explorers.  Alfred  must  have  had 
something  of  David's  Saxon  beauty.  And  then,  like 
homing  doves,  his  thoughts  flew  to  the  Abbey,  and  he 
wondered  whether  the  boy  at  his  feet  would  live  to  set 
forth  in  music  what  Ramsam  and  Bradford  had 
enshrined  in  stone.  Now  that  the  great  moment 
had  come,  he  funked  it.  How  would  the  child  receive 
his  astounding  communication  ?  Certain  carefully 
prepared  phrases  which  might  soap  the  ways  whereon 
his  offer  would  slide  into  David's  mind  took  fright 
and  vanished.  He  was  only  conscious  that  spring 
was  abroad  in  Wessex  and  that  David  was  a  boy  who 
might  become  a  great  man.  Presently,  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly : 

"If  you  shut  your  eyes  you  can  hear  the  grass  grow." 
"I  don't  want  to  hear  the  grass  grow.     I'm  fright- 
fully excited  because  you're  going  to  unbottle  Auntie." 
"Your  aunt  is  leaving  Sherborne." 
"Then  I  shan't  stay  here.     How  beastly!" 
"  You  would  like  to  stay  here  without  her  ? " 
"Auntie  is  not  a  bad  sort,  but  I  bore  her.     I'm 
in  her  way.    I'm  a  nuisance.    I  made  certain  I  should 
be  sent  to  London  because  that  would  save  her  a  lot 
of  time  and  bother  and  money!" 

"You  thought  that  out  by  yourself?" 

"Yes.    I  can't  pretend  with  you.    I  mean,  I  mustn't. 


32  PROLOGUE 

Last  night,  before  you  came,  when  I  told  her  I  wasn't 
going  to  London,  she  got  awfully  cross,  because  we 
both  thought  they  didn't  want  me.  Do  they  want  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I'm  not  going?" 

"No." 

"And  Auntie  is  going?" 

"Within  a  month." 

"Then  what's  to  become  of  me  ?" 

"A  crusty  old  bachelor  wants  to  adopt  you." 

"Golly!     It's  you.     Quick!    Say  it's  you." 

"Yes  — it's  I." 

The  child  flung  himself  into  Fermor's  arms. 

"  Oh !"  he  exclaimed.  "  It's  too  splended  —  it's  won- 
derful —  it's  just  right  —  it's  the  bestest  thing  that 
ever  happened." 

"I  believe  it  is,"  said  Fermor.  The  child's  emotion 
unmanned  him,  the  child's  kisses  seemed  to  touch 
some  chord  in  his  heart.  He  heard  the  "heavenly 
note"  for  which  he  had  sought  so  patiently.  And 
then  everything  that  had  been  denied  expression, 
the  myriad  emotions  of  which  the  human  mind  and 
body  are  capable,  thrilled  into  music.  He  understood 
that  he  had  come  into  the  world  for  this  moment,  that 
the  child  was  his,  and  had  acclaimed  him  joyously, 
with  a  conviction  which  swept  doubt  to  the  void.  His 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating,  as  if  it,  also,  had  paused 
to  listen  to  celestial  harmonies. 

"Are  you  ill  ?"  said  the  boy  anxiously. 

Fermor  smiled. 


PROLOGUE  33 

"I  have  never  felt  better  or  happier.  But  a  queer 
thing  happened.  I  heard  a  new  song." 

"A  new  song?  You  must  write  it  down,  as  you 
wrote  down  mine  yesterday." 

Fermor  laughed. 

"It  was  a  wonderful  song,  but  it's  gone." 

"Where  do  you  think  it  came  from  ?" 

Fermor  gazed  gravely  into  the  boy's  eyes. 

"From  the  other  side,"  he  answered. 


BOOK  I 


'Once  more  I  behold  the  face  of  her 
Whose  actions  all  had  the  character 
Of  an  inexpressible  charm,  expressed; 
Whose  movements  -flowed  from  a  centre  of  rest, 
And  whose  rest  was  that  of  a  swallow,  rife 
With  the  instinct  of  reposing  life; 
Whose  mirth  had  a  sadness  all  the  while 
It  sparkled  and  laughed;  and  whose  sadness  lay 
In  the  heaven  of  such  a  crystal  smile 
That  you  longed  to  travel  the  selfsame  way 
To  the  brightness  of  sorrow.       For  round  her  breathed 
A  grace  like  that  of  the  general  air, 
Which  softens  the  sharp  extreme  of  things, 
And  connects  by  its  subtle  invisible  stair 
The  lowest  and  highest.      She  interwreathed 
Her  mortal  obscureness  with  so  much  light 
Of  the  world  unrisen,  that  angels9  wings 
Could  hardly  have  given  her  greater  right 
To  float  in  the  winds  of  the  Infinite" 


35 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    VICAR    ENTERTAINS    MISGIVINGS 

THE  audience  gathered  together  to  listen  to 
David  Archdale's  first  recital,  after  his 
appointment  as  organist  of  Sherborne  Abbey, 
filled  more  than  half  of  the  nave.  The  townsmen 
knew  that  the  young  man  was  succeeding  Sebastian 
Fermor,  who  had  retired  after  five  and  twenty  years 
of  service.  Few  were  aware  that  Fermor's  retirement 
was  voluntary,  and  that,  on  tendering  his  resignation, 
the  Vicar  had  entreated  him  to  remain.  His  improve- 
ments in  the  tremulant,  the  coupling  arrangements, 
and  the  pneumatic  pistons,  and  the  pitch  of  perfection 
to  which  he  had  trained  the  choir  was  now  part  of  the 
history  of  Sherborne.  To  lose  such  an  organist, 
although  he  was  being  replaced  by  a  more  brilliant 
musician,  distressed  the  Vicar  unduly.  To  make 
matters  worse,  it  was  improbable  that  young  Archdale 
would  be  content  to  remain  in  Sherborne.  He  was 
only  twenty-three  years  of  age,  and  had  attracted 
attention  as  a  composer  of  tonal  poems  of  originality 
and  vigour.  Dr.  Jubber,  now  nearing  his  three- 
score years  and  ten,  loved  music,  and  knew  not  a 
little  concerning  the  lives  of  musicians.  Admitting 
that  David  was  the  genius  which  Fermor  believed 
him  to  be,  nothing  could  be  more  certain  than  his  recog- 

37 


38  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

nition  as  such  by  the  world.  Like  Mendelssohn, 
Mozart,  Meyerbeer,  Spohr,  and  many  others,  he  had 
begun  to  compose  as  a  child.  Fermor  had  envelopes 
full  of  what  he  called  "refractory"  ores.  They  were 
refractory  inasmuch  as  they  defied  reduction.  Fermor, 
a  purist,  who  held  that  music  was  capable  of  express- 
ing more  than  the  emotions  of  an  individual,  abom- 
inated cheap  and  redundant  effects.  And  within 
two  years  of  his  adoption  of  David,  he  had  realized 
the  perils  and  seductions  of  a  premature  and  facile 
success.  Till  now,  his  influence  over  the  young  fellow, 
his  will  stronger  than  his  pupil's  and,  greatest  reason 
of  all,  his  self-effacing  love  and  tenderness  for  one 
whom  he  regarded  as  a  son,  had  kept  Archdale  a  willing 
captive  in  a  quiet  town.  To-day  might  inaugurate 
a  new  era.  The  Vicar,  leaning  back  in  his  stall,  sen- 
sible of  impotence  mocking  experience,  told  himself 
that  the  flight  which,  years  before,  he  had  predicted, 
was  likely  to  begin. 

Halfway  down  the  nave  sat  Fermor.  He  had 
changed  little  during  the  passage  of  thirteen  years. 
Shy,  reserved,  awkward  he  would  remain  till  he  died, 
but  his  face  was  informed  with  serenity.  He  looked 
a  happy  man,  a  harvester  of  sheaves,  content  to  count 
them  and  to  reflect  that  his  husbandry  would  fill 
empty  mouths.  He  shared  none  of  the  Vicar's  fears 
concerning  David,  for  a  reason  which  will  appear 
presently.  He  gazed  placidly  at  David's  present  and 
future,  perceiving  both  by  the  rosy  glow  of  the  past. 
Had  he  not  leapt  valiantly  into  a  dark  gulf  and,  on 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS  39 

landing,  discovered  himself  in  a  sunny  garden  filled 
with  sweet  smelling  herbs  and  flowers  ?  The  child 
who  had  leapt  with  him,  so  joyously  and  confidently, 
had  surpassed  expectation. 

By  Fermor's  side  was  a  young  woman.  Several 
times  during  the  recital  she  touched  Fermor's  arm 
and  glanced  into  his  face,  at  if  an  understanding 
existed  between  them,  an  entente  founded  upon  esteem 
and  affection.  David  was  playing  a  composition 
of  his  own,  presented  for  the  first  time  to  an  audience, 
but  familiar  in  every  phrase  to  Fermor  and  his  com- 
panion. The  theme  was  ecclesiastical,  elegiac,  and 
Gothic,  interpreting  the  meaning  and  message  of  the 
great  house  of  God  wherein  it  was  heard.  Doubtless 
the  frivolous  would  condemn  it  as  too  austere.  Here 
and  there  the  composer  had  introduced  modulations 
and  dissonants,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  finite  discord 
ever  obtruding  itself  into  the  infinite  and  divine.  The 
opening  was  intentionally  chaotic,  presenting  the 
architects  confronted  with  shapeless  rocks  and  vast 
timbers.  Through  this,  thinly  at  first,  trickled  the 
theme,  developed  in  accordance  with  the  swelling 
ideas  of  the  Saxon  and  Norman  builders.  The  orna- 
mentation in  the  second  movement,  the  addition  of 
colour,  was  conveyed  with  a  breadth  and  distinction 
which  almost  equalled  the  finished  work  of  Bradford 
and  Ramsam.  Fermor  nodded  approvingly,  gazing 
upward  into  the  roof  of  the  Choir,  where  the  delicate 
shafts  and  panelling  soar  into  the  finest  Perpendicular 


40  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

fan-vaulting  in  existence.  The  general  effect  of  the 
Abbey  Church  interior  is  that  of  incomparable  fresh- 
ness—  as  Fermor  reminded  himself  —  which  had  been 
miraculously  preserved  by  thick  plaster.  In  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  the  plaster  was  care- 
fully removed,  the  beautiful  Ham  stone  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  newly  taken  from  the  quarry.  Fermor 
liked  to  reflect  that  in  men  as  in  buildings  fine  tracery 
may  be  overlaid.  Had  it  not  been  so  with  him  ?  Till 
his  adoption  of  David,  the  delicate  tissues  of  mind  and 
soul  were  concealed  beneath  an  ever-thickening  mask 
of  indifference  and  impassivity.  David  Archdale  had 
chipped  the  plaster  from  Sebastian  Fermor. 

The  third  movement  began:  illustrating  the  House 
Beautiful,  a  sanctuary  for  quick  and  dead.  Into 
the  spaces  of  the  nave  a  miserere  quivered,  as  if  from 
the  ambulatory,  where  the  Saxon  kings,  Ethelbert 
and  Ethelbald,  lie  at  rest.  The  girl  pressed  Fermor' s 
arm  and  smiled.  To  her,  death  meant  the  passing 
to  an  ampler  life,  a  passage  so  easy,  involving  so  little 
change,  that,  apart  from  the  pangs  of  dissolution,  it 
ought  to  be  no  more  dreadful  than  falling  asleep. 
To  her,  also,  the  miserere  drew  tears  for  the  living  - 
those  left  behind.  And  faintly  blushing,  she  prayed, 
"O  God!  Let  me  go  first!"  The  wish  had  hardly 
been  aspirated,  when  the  solemn  largo  began  to  melt 
into  an  adagio,  so  melodious,  so  pregnant  with  the 
suggestion  of  renascence  and  vernal  change,  that  the 
girl  asked  herself  if  it  were  possible  that  only  a  moment 
since  she  had  confronted  smilingly  the  leaving  of  a 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS   41 

world  so  fair.  She  heard  the  lark  and  the  nightin- 
gale, and  in  her  nostrils  was  the  fragrance  of  woods 
and  fields.  Once  more,  beneath  her  breath,  as  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell,  she  entreated:  "O  God,  let  me 
live  long  if  it  be  Thy  will!" 

After  the  recital  Fermor  asked  a  few  friends  to  drink 
tea  with  him.  For  many  years  he  had  occupied  a 
cottage  in  the  Abbey  Close,  next  to  the  Vicarage,  at 
the  end  of  the  delightful  semicircle  which  begins  with 
the  Almshouses.  The  gray  stone  of  it  was  half  con- 
cealed by  ivy  and  climbing  roses.  From  its  square 
Jacobean  windows  one  could  see  the  West  front  of 
the  Abbey,  the  yews  and  lindens  of  the  Close,  and  the 
quaintly  broken  line  of  roofs  to  the  right  of  the  South 
Transept. 

The  long,  low  room,  half  library,  half  music-room, 
was  panelled  in  old  oak,  not  black,  but  golden  with 
age,  and  immaculate  of  stain  or  varnish.  The  furni- 
ture was  of  oak,  also  —  simple  and  solid.  A  few 
mellow  mezzotints  hung  upon  the  panels,  and  there 
were  many  books,  and  an  ancient  fireplace.  Tweedle- 
dum and  Tweedledee  faced  each  other  as  of  yore. 
Upon  a  blackboard  a  diagram  in  chalk  illustrated  an 
elementary  principle  of  counterpoint. 

At  the  tea-table  presided  the  girl  who  had  sat  beside 
Fermor  in  the  Abbey.  She  was  not  remarkable  in 
any  way,  and  yet  men  and  women  looked  at  her  with 
interest.  She  spoke  of  herself  as  a  "  back-seater." 
Fermor  and  she  had  many  mild  jokes  upon  the  subject. 


42  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

In  public,  Mary  Pignerol  was  always  overshadowed 
by  her  father,  Professor  Pignerol,  the  natural  science 
master  of  Sherborne  School,  a  French-Anglophile, 
who  had  married  an  Englishwoman  and  settled  in 
England.  Many  of  us  have  heard  him  lecture.  He 
spoke  English  well,  being  an  ardent  hunter  of  the 
mot  juste,  as  Miss  Callow  observed.  He  stood  talk- 
ing to  David  at  the  end  of  the  room.  Mary  kept 
house  for  him  and  mothered  her  younger  brothers 
and  sisters.  Mrs.  Pignerol  was  dead.  The  Professor, 
admittedly  the  most  popular  man  in  Sherborne  (al- 
though for  a  dominie  he  was  understood  to  hold 
extraordinary  views),  belonged  to  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research;  and  it  was  whispered  that  at  one 
time  in  his  life  he  had  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
the  late  Madame  Blavatzky.  More,  he  never  hesi- 
tated to  draw  comparisons  between  France  and  Eng- 
and,  not  always  to  the  advantage  of  the  latter,  but 
his  breezy  laughter  whistled  to  the  wind  any  suspicion 
of  offence. 

Mary  could  hear  him  talking  about  music  to  David 
Archdale  and  the  group  surrounding  them. 

"Your  work  to-day  was  fine,  David,  but,  like  some 
of  our  good  Vicar's  sermons,  over  the  heads  of  the 
people.  The  English  have  no  imagination,  but  they 
are  ridiculously  sentimental.  They  adore  the  tinkle- 
tinkle  melodies,  which  the  boys  whistle  in  the  streets. 
If  you  want  to  sell  your  muffins,  ring  the  tinkle-tinkle 
bell." 

Mary   leaned   forward,   smiling,   to   catch    David's 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS  43 

answer.  He  had  a  beautiful  speaking  voice,  with  the 
diapason  quality.  Nevertheless,  Fermor's  hope  that 
he  might  become  a  great  singer  had  never  fructified. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  want  to  sell  my  muffins  ?" 

"  If  you  don't,  it  is  well."  He  turned  to  Miss  Rachel 
Callow.  "I  am  so  wise.  I  see  so  much.  When  I 
was  David's  age,  I  too  wanted  to  sell  muffins,  and  I 
too  rang  my  tinkle-tinkle  bell." 

"And  now?"  demanded  Miss  Callow  sharply. 

"Ah!  I  am  a  philosopher  now.  An  evangelist. 
I  preach  to  my  silly  pupils  who  laugh  at  me  the  gospel 
of  work.  Look  at  Mary!" 

Everybody  did  so  immediately,  to  Mary's  confusion 
She  sat  still,  smiling  and  blushing. 

"That  child,"  said  the  Professor,  solemnly,  "is  the 
busiest  woman  in  Sherborne,  and  the  happiest.  Look 
at  her!" 

"Dear  father,  please!' 

"  But,  my  child,  consider  yourself,  for  the  moment, 
an  object  lesson.  You  are  adorable  when  you  blush, 
isn't  she,  David?" 

"Yes,"  said  David. 

"We  will  admit,"  continued  the  Professor,  "that 
my  Mary  has  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  having  me  for 
a  father,  and " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  as  the  Vicar  entered  the  room, 
followed  by  a  striking-looking  woman,  whom  nobody 
present  had  ever  seen  before.  Everything  about  her 
was  on  a  large  and  expensive  scale.  Her  hat,  her 
sables,  her  complexion  proclaimed  that  money  was  as 


44  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

silver  in  the  days  of  Solomon.  Under  the  hat  flashed 
a  pair  of  bright,  slightly  prominent  eyes,  of  a  Van 
Dyck  brown  tint,  shaded  by  short  thick  black  lashes. 

This  was  the  famous  Mrs.  Stormont,  Felicia  Stor- 
mont,  who  boasted  that  she  had  revived  in  London 
the  French  salon. 

"I  insisted  on  coming/'  she  said,  in  a  clear,  pleasant 
voice,  to  Fermor.  "And,  of  course,  I  always  have 
my  own  way.  I'm  the  most  persistent  woman  in  Eng- 
land. Please  introduce  me  to  your  wonderful  son." 

Fermor  hastened  to  obey.  The  discreet  use  of  the 
word  "son"  warmed  his  heart.  Indiscreet  persons 
spoke  of  his  adopted  son,  till,  in  truth,  he  had  come 
to  hate  the  qualifying  adjective. 

"I  am  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Archdale," 
said  the  smiling  stranger.  "Surely  this  is  Professor 
Pignerol." 

"At  your  service,  Madame." 

"I  have  heard  you  lecture.  You  are  writing  a 
book  reconciling  science  with  religion  ?" 

"I  am,"  the  Professor  admitted. 

"Science  is  coming  round,  but  religion  holds  back. 
We  must  have  a  talk  together."  With  a  gracious 
nod,  she  turned  from  the  Frenchman  to  David,  who 
looked  slightly  shy  and  ill  as  ease. 

"You  will  get  me  a  cup  of  tea,  won't  you  ?  I  have 
so  much  to  say  to  you." 

David  brought  the  tea,  and  a  chair.  He  felt  rather 
tongue-tied,  but  instinct  told  him,  reassuringly,  that 
she  would  talk  for  two. 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS  45 

"You  are  a  genius/'  she  began.  "I  discovered  that 
for  myself.  By  the  way  —  do  you  ever  go  to  London  ? " 

"  Hardly  ever." 

"Dear  me!  I  was  hoping  that  I  could  persuade 
you  to  dine  with  me  next  week,  to  meet  a  few  people 
who  would  interest  you." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Stormont." 

"Don't  say  that!  And  pray  don't  imagine  that  I 
should  ask  you  to  play,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  but 
you  will  permit  a  middle-aged  woman  to  remark 
that  a  young  man  should  see  something  not  to  be 
found  in  Sherborne."  Her  eyes,  scintillating  with 
interrogation,  met  his.  He  laughed  and  blushed. 

"Perhaps." 

" There  is  no  *  perhaps'  about  it.  I  predict,  with 
confidence,  that  you  are  going  very  far,  but  you  must 
be  advertised.  Advertisement,  to-day,  accomplishes 
more  for  genius  than  adversity.  To  be  sure,  you  can 
know  nothing  of  the  latter  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  half  a  dozen  men." 
She  named  three  of  them.  u  You  will  admit  that  they 
are  worth  knowing." 

"  I  should  be  frightened  out  of  my  life." 

"It's  so  charming  of  you  to  say  that.  I've  been 
rather  abrupt,  but  my  host  at  the  Castle  enjoined  me 
not  to  keep  his  horses  waiting.  You  will  come  to  see 
me  ?  Stormont  Lodge,  opposite  Hyde  Park,  on  the 
right  side." 

"I'm  sure  of  that." 


46  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

She  gave  him  an  approving  little  nod,  and, 
sinking  her  voice,  said  softly:  "I  don't  think 
you  will  be  very  badly  frightened.  Where  is  the 
Professor?" 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  adding  in  her  ordinary  tone: 
"You  will  come  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I'm  at  home  every  Thursday  to  my  acquaintances, 
but  my  friends  get  a  warmer  welcome  on  Sunday." 

Within  five  minutes,  she  had  disappeared,  leaving 
behind  her  a  phosphorescent  wake,  which  illuminated 
queerly  some  stolid  faces.  The  Professor  said  son- 
orously: 

'That  woman  —  Heaven  help  her! — is  suffering 
from  an  incurable  disease!" 

"What?"   exclaimed  Miss  Callow. 

"Restlessness.  She  opens  her  door  wide  to  the 
living  and  the  dead." 

"The  dead?" 

The  Professor  always  shocked  Miss  Callow,  but 
she  told  everybody  that  his  conversation  was  so 
stimulating. 

"Certainly,  the  dead.  This  good  lady  is  too  hos- 
pitable. She  entertains,  unawares,  the  thought-forms 
of  thousands  of  chatterboxes,  whose  physical  bodies 
have  long  ago  disintegrated." 

Miss  Callow  carried  this  stimulating  hypothesis 
home  with  her;  and  at  her  departure  others  took 
leave.  David  slipped  away  with  Mary  Pignerol. 
The  Vicar,  Fermor,  and  the  Frenchman  were  left: 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS   47 

all  friends,  and  each  sensible  that  the  other  possessed 
attributes  lacking  in  himself.  The  Professor  sur- 
veyed Dr.  Jubber  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "What  have  you  to  say  for  your- 
self? To  drop  that  explosive  into  our  quiet  pool 
was  abominable." 

"Tut,  tut!     A  very  kind  woman!" 

"She  asked  David  to  her  house,  exacted  a  solemn 
'yes'  from  him.  And  I  tell  you  it's  a  pest-house. 
She  will  infect  him." 

"My  dear  Pignerol,  you  and  Fermor  cannot  dry- 
nurse  David  for  ever.  In  the  Abbey,  this  afternoon, 
I  was  thinking  with  a  certain  misgiving  upon  what  we 
three  had  done." 

"Be  lucid!"  commanded  the  Professor. 

Fermor,  in  his  chair,  nodded,  filling  his  pipe.  The 
Vicar,  erect  upon  the  hearthrug,  accepted  the  challenge. 

"We  have  taken  part  in  a  delightful  and  exciting 
experiment:  the  fashioning  of  a  genius.  Fermor, 
of  course,  has  done  the  hard  work." 

"  It  was  easy  to  me.  David  took  to  music  from  the 
beginning,  but,"  he  glanced  at  the  Vicar,  "his  Latin 
and  Greek,  and,"  he  smiled  at  the  Professor,  "his 
French  and  Science !" 

"  He  will  never  be  a  scholar,"  said  the  Vicar 
solemnly. 

"  Or  a  man  of  Science,"  added  the  Professor.  "  Jub- 
ber is  right.  These  doctors  of  divinity  are  nearly 
always  right,  except  when  they  talk  about  divinity. 
Our  work  has  been  supplementary,  but  we  have  joined 


48  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

together  in  protecting  the  boy  against  the  assaults  of 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil." 

"And  so  far  we  may  congratulate  ourselves  upon 
being  successful/' 

"So  far?" 

'The  time  has  come  when  our  work  is  going  to  be 
tested.  We  have  three  strong  wills.  David  has  not 
a  strong  will.  Because  of  that  we  have  succeeded  in 
imposing  upon  him  our  ideas  and  ideals/' 

"Quite  true,"  assented  Pignerol.  He  held  up  his 
hands  with  a  comical  gesture.  "Bon  Dieu!  what 
luck  for  him!" 

The  Vicar  frowned. 

"I  wish  I  were  as  conceited  as  you,  my  good 
Professor." 

"Cher  maitrey  you  are  a  dignitary  of  the  Church 
of  England,  and  I  am  a  psychologist,  who,  for  grievous 
sins  committed  in  previous  existences,  am  constrained 
to  teach  physics  to  pudding-witted  boys.  To-day, 
I  value  myself  and  my  influence  highly.  I  am  no 
longer  the  miserable  sinner  I  used  to  be  ten  thousand 
ages  ago.  And  the  force  which  flows  through  me  is 
divine.  I  were  a  blasphemer  to  deny  it.  You,  my 
poor  friend,  handicap  the  same  force  which  emanates 
from  you  by  pretending  that  you  are  a  worm.  Master 
David  is  enormously  in  our  debt.  He  will  never  know 
it  in  his  present  incarnation,  or  be  able  to  measure  it." 

Fermor  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"What  are  your  misgivings,  Jubber?" 

"For  one  thing,  I  am  certain  that  I  shall  soon  be 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS  49 

without  an  organist.  Perhaps,  then,  we  shall  persuade 
you  to  come  back.  That  is  a  personal  matter,  but  it 
drives  home  the  fact  that  we  cannot  keep  the  boy  here. 
And  we  three  have  supplied  him  with  so  much  of  what 
our  friend  calls  force  that  I  wonder  what  will  happen 
when  it  is  withdrawn." 

"Why  should  it  be  withdrawn  ?" 

"Speaking  for  myself,  it  is  certain  that  I  also  shall 
be  leaving  Sherborne  soon." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  Frenchman, 
with  irrepressible  sympathy,  jumped  up  and  pressed 
the  Vicar's  hand. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  was  not  easy  for  you 
to  say  that.  But,  over  there,  you  will  have  oppor- 
tunities of  which  you  cannot  dream."  He  continued 
enthusiastically:  "The  force  will  be  intensified, 
provided  -  He  hesitated. 

"Provided?" 

"  Provided  that  the  boy  remains  recipient.  Our 
influence  is  not  subject  to  time  and  space.  Love  is 
active.  It  would  affect  David  as  potently  if  he  were 
walking  about  Mars  instead  of  walking  with  Mary. 
But  he,  I  grant  you,  can  interpose  obstacles.  And 
so  far,  he  had  not  been  seriously  attacked  by  the 
elementals." 

The  Vicar  made  a  grimace. 

"You  ask  me  to  be  lucid,  and  you  talk  this 
jargon !" 

"Then  I  will  say  that  your  personal  Devil,  who, 
to  me,  is  represented  by  billions  of  evil  thoughts,  has 


50  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

not  found  this  room  a  happy  hunting-ground.  And 
I'm  sure  that  he  prefers  to  play  the  deuce  outside  the 
Abbey.  The  longer  we  can  keep  David  as  he  is,  the 
better.  That's  why  I  hated  to  see  the  snake  in  our 
little  Eden.  However,  he  must  fight,  but  we  have 
trained  him,  and  sharpened  his  weapons,  and  we  ought 
not  to  question  the  ultimate  issue.  By  apprehending 
disaster,  we  help  to  bring  it  about.  I  should  call 
myself  a  false  friend,  if  I  did  not  believe  that  David, 
no  matter  what  the  fight  may  be,  will  conquer  in 
the  end." 

"Amen,"  said  the  Vicar. 

"  David  is  with  Mary,"  said  Fermor. 

Simultaneously,  the  three  men  burst  into  laughter. 

"  Is  it  to  be  settled  this  afternoon  ?"   asked  Pignerol. 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  you  must  come  up  this  evening  to  crack  a 
bottle  of  champagne.  Are  you  sure,  Fermor?" 

"  Reasonably  so." 

"I  feel  easier  in  my  mind,"  said  the  Vicar.  "I  had 
forgotten  Mary.  Yes,  yes,  I  feel  much  easier." 

He  went  away  with  Pignerol.  Fermor  sat  still, 
smoking  and  thinking.  To  teach  an  ardent  pupil 
an  art  dear  to  oneself  is  indeed  easy  and  pleasant, 
but  to  face  public  opinion  and  conventions  sanctified 
by  a  thousand  years  is  not  easy.  The  Vicar,  for 
instance,  commended  a  public-school  education,  and 
had,  at  his  own  wish,  coached  David  for  an  entrance 
scholarship  at  Sherborne.  Upon  the  eve  of  the  exam- 
ination, Fermor  discussed  the  matter  with  the  boy. 


THE  VICAR  ENTERTAINS  MISGIVINGS   51 

He  remembered   his   astonishment  when   David   said 
explosively : 

"  I  loathe  the  idea  of  going  to  school  here." 

Fermor  sympathized  with  this  declaration.  He,  too, 
had  loathed  his  school  days.  But  David  was  neither 
shy,  nor  awkward,  and  was  physically  able  to  hold  his 
own. 

"Why  ?     Give  me  your  reasons." 

"In  the  first  place,  boys  bore  me.  Most  of  'em 
are  beasts,  particularly  choristers.  I  like  grown-ups. 
By  making  me  your  pal,  you've  rather  spoilt  me  for 
school. 

"This  is  serious." 

"  Isn't  it  ?     I  can  think  of  nothing  else." 

"I  must  talk  it  over  with  Professor  Pignerol." 

"I  like  him  awfully.  Of  course,  if  you  and  he  decide 
that  I  must  go,  I  shall  try  to  grin  and  bear  it." 

Pignerol,  with  a  Gallic  sense  of  detachment,  asked 
for  time. 

"I  believe,"  said  he,  "that  the  boy  is  a  remarkable 
exception,  and  that  his  instinct  is  not  at  fault.  If  you 
decide  to  bring  him  up  at  home,  upon  lines  different 
from  what  we  have  seen  here,  I  shall  be  enormously 
interested,  and  I'll  help  with  his  education.  So  will 
the  Vicar,  I'm  sure,  although  we  must  expect  violent 
protest  from  him.  As  you  know,  I'm  bringing  up 
my  children  in  defiance  of  cut-and-dried  standards." 

Next  day  the  Professor  added  a  few  more  words: 
"David  is  to  be  a  great  musician.  The  three  of  us 
are  agreed  upon  that.  Songs  come  buzzing  into  his 


52  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

head,  and  then  you  write  'em  down.  For  his  age, 
he  seems  to  have  an  amazing  appreciation  of  what  is 
beautiful.  Public-school  life  is  levelling,  and  it  abhors 
the  supernormal.  David  is  not  abnormal,  but  super- 
normal: a  distinction  you  understand.  In  brief,  if  he 
were  mine,  and  if  I  were  you,  I  should  keep  him  under 
my  own  eye  and  thumb." 

Accordingly,  David  did  not  go  to  school.  And, 
eventually,  the  Vicar  admitted  that  Fermor  had  done 
the  wise  thing.  The  boy  responded  to  the  attention 
that  was  given  to  him.  Three  men,  strong,  unselfish, 
and  highly  cultured,  formed  themselves,  so  to  speak, 
into  a  syndicate  for  the  development  of  a  genius,  and 
they  represented  respectively,  faith,  hope,  and  love. 
Pignerol  had  the  faith  which  removes  mountains; 
the  Vicar  hoped  that  all  would  be  well,  but  at  times 
entertained  misgivings;  Fermor  loved  his  adopted 
son  with  a  devotion  never  too  sentimental,  or  foolish, 
or  blind.  He  saw  to  it  that  the  boy  played  with  com- 
panions of  his  own  age;  he  treated  symptoms  of  swelled 
head  with  judicious  doses  of  chaff;  he  taught  him  to 
recognize  humbug  and  insincerity  at  a  glance,  to  dis- 
tinguish the  "porcelain  clay"  of  human  kind  from  cheap 
imitation;  and,  lastly,  the  things  which  no  man  can 
teach  he  left  to  a  little  girl,  to  Mary  Pignerol. 


CHAPTER  II 

CONCERNING    MARY    PIGNEROL 

MARY  was  some  six  months  younger  than 
David.  The  death  of  her  mother — and  the 
fact  that  she  was  the  eldest  child — had 
developed  largely  maternal  instincts.  Whereas  David 
had  been  protected  with  a  subtle  intelligence  from  the 
moment  of  his  adoption,  so  Mary,  ever  since  her  eleventh 
year,  had  protected  others:  a  labour  of  love  which  had 
made  her  a  happy  and  healthy  woman.  Other  factors 
had  contributed  to  bring  about  a  result  so  satisfactory. 
The  Professor  did  not  overstate  the  care  when  he 
pointed  out  that  it  was  a  privilege  to  be  his  daughter. 
He  adored  his  children,  after  a  fashion  that  in  a  Briton 
might  be  stigmatized  as  gushing,  but  in  a  Frenchman 
as  expansive.  He  treated  them  as  equals;  he  entered 
with  zest  into  their  occupations;  he  took  for  granted 
that  they  were  interested  in  his.  Heart  and  mind  were 
open  to  them  day  and  night. 

This  remarkable  family  lived  in  a  charming  house. 
Now  that  Science  is  beginning  to  take  belated  notice 
of  psychic  phenomena,  we  may  hope,  in  the  near  future, 
to  understand  with  some  degree  of  precision  why  cer- 
tain habitations  are  admittedly  malefic,  and  others  as 
admittedly  the  contrary.  The  Professor  had  accumu- 

53 


54  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

lated  a  mass  ef  evidence  bearing  upon  this  subject, 
and  was  prepared  to  demonstrate  that  misery  and  vice 
infect  a  house  and  a  neighbourhood  as  virulently  as 
smallpox  or  the  plague.  Old  Mr.  Podmore,  of  Thomas 
Podmore  &  Son,  Real  Estate  Agents  and  Auctioneers, 
delighted  to  relate  his  first  experience  with  the  French- 
man, who,  on  arrival,  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  pretty 
cottage  at  the  bottom  of  the  town.  Rent,  situation, 
accommodation,  garden  were  so  exactly  what  was 
wanted  that  the  matter  seemed  settled,  when,  quite 
to  the  confounding  of  Thomas  Podmore,  the  Professor 
had  asked  for  information  concerning  the  outgoing 
tenants.  Learning  with  dismay  that  a  notorious 
drunkard  and  evil-liver  had  died  in  the  cottage,  after 
making  the  lives  of  his  unfortunate  wife  and  children 
as  wretched  as  possible,  Louis  Pignerol  declared  the 
place  to  be  unholy  ground,  and  to  him  and  his  —  taboo! 
Ultimately,  he  had  taken  upon  a  long  lease  a  stone 
house  on  Green  Hill,  inhabited  during  five  and 
twenty  years  by  two  dear  old  maiden  ladies,  whose 
names  had  become  a  synonym  in  Sherborne  for 
unaffected  piety,  crochet-work,  and  a  mellow  soul- 
sufFusing  serenity. 

Behind  the  house  was  a  garden:  Mary's  particular 
pleasaunce,  always  spoken  of  by  the  Professor  as  the 
Paradise  of  Inexhaustible  Delights.  It  approached 
perfection  because  of  a  sane  simplicity  so  ordered  that 
visitors  were  impressed  with  the  fact  that  further 
improvement  was  impossible.  Children  proclaimed  it 
"Just  right!"  Need  it  be  added  that  Pignerol  and  his 


CONCERNING  MARY  PIGNEROL        55 

family  left  care  without  the  garden  ?  They  entered  it 
for  rest  and  recreation.  It  was  open  to  their  friends 
upon  terms  understood  and  unexpressed.  Sherburnians 
might  laugh  at  Louis  Pignerol  as  being  "queer,"  but 
they  respected  the  sanctuary  from  which  the  mean  and 
false  and  pretentious  were  resolutely  excluded.  No 
unsightly  roofs  or  chimneys  could  be  seen  from  any 
part  of  it.  Occupying  not  more  than  two  acres  of 
ground,  it  was  bounded  on  the  east  and  west  by  high 
walls  hidden  behind  trees  and  shrubs,  and  on  the  south 
by  a  superb,  closely  clipped  yew  hedge.  In  the  days 
of  the  spinsters  the  garden  had  been  remarkable  for 
an  old-fashioned  primness  and  formality.  The  yew 
hedge  was  cut  square;  all  paths  were  straight;  the  flower 
beds  were  laid  out  in  geometrical  patterns.  Pignerol 
and  Mary,  labouring  year  after  year  with  patience 
and  enthusiasm,  had  transformed  straight  lines  into 
gracious  curves.  The  yew  hedge  now  presented  an 
undulating  surface  of  dark  shining  foliage  against  which, 
in  contrast,  stood  out  lilac,  laburnum,  flowering  thorn 
and  maple.  At  one  end  of  the  hedge  a  magnificent 
horse-chestnut  and  at  the  other  a  feathery  Lawson's 
cypress  made  a  frame  for  the  tower  of  the  Abbey. 
When  the  sun  reached  the  west  the  pinnacles  would 
glitter  against  the  soft  green  slopes  of  Honeycomb 
Hill. 

An  ample  lawn  sloped  from  the  house  to  a  terraced 
tennis  ground.  Near  the  middle  of  the  slope  was  a 
sun-dial  with  Spinoza's  inscription,  Bene  agere  et 
laetari,  supported  by  a  leaden  amorino  —  Love  laugh- 


56  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ing  at  the  flight  of  Time.  Elms,  beeches,  oak,  fir,  and 
cypress  stood  like  sentinels  between  the  lawn  and  the 
town,  but  on  the  lawn  itself  were  no  trees  except  a 
superb  cedar  of  Lebanon,  a  weeping  ash,  and  a  tall 
acacia.  To  the  left  a  variegated  maple  shone  with 
silvery  radiance  upon  the  ilex  and  copper  beeches  which 
hid  the  wall.  Here  and  there  trellises  of  climbing 
roses,  jasmine,  and  wistaria,  bordered  by  flowering 
shrubs,  broke  judiciously  the  formality  of  the  garden, 
and,  while  revealing  the  beauties  particular  to  each 
bed,  challenged  interest  and  curiosity  in  the  parts  of 
the  garden  which  they  so  cunningly  obscured.  No 
weed,  you  may  be  sure,  could  be  found  in  the  sanctuary, 
but  the  strip  of  ground  between  the  yew  hedge  and  the 
tennis  court  had  been  left  as  a  wilderness  of  waving 
grasses  bespangled  in  springtime  by  daffodils. 

Into  this  garden  David  and  Mary  entered.  Here 
they  played  together  as  children.  Upon  the  lowest 
branch  of  the  mulberry  tree,  near  the  tennis  court, 
David,  when  a  ripe  twelve,  had  asked  her  to  be  his 
wife. 

In  silence  they  sat  down  upon  a  low  stone  bench 
under  the  cedar.  The  back  of  the  bench  was  curiously 
carved,  representing  two  griffins  apparently  trying  to 
swallow  the  forked  ends  of  their  tails.  Mary  said  that 
she  never  sat  upon  it  without  reflecting  that  even  for 
griffins  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

David  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  He  was  in  no 
hurry  to  speak;  he  knew  that  she  was  content  to  wait 
till  he  did  speak. 


CONCERNING   MARY   PIGNEROL        57 

This  particular  corner  of  the  garden  had  an  enchant- 
ing atmosphere  of  seclusion  and  privacy,  but  even  here 
sounds  from  the  outside  world  penetrated:  the  rattle 
of  wheels,  the  roar  of  passing  trains,  the  gay  peal  of 
wedding  chimes,  and  the  solemn  note  of  Great  Tom, 
the  three-ton  bell  which  Cardinal  Wolsey  had  presented 
to  the  Abbey.  During  term-time  the  laughter  of  innu- 
merable boys  fell  tinkling  upon  this  quiet  spot,  and 
often  the  fifes  and  drums  of  a  regiment  marching 
through  the  town  reminded  those  at  peace  that  war 
had  been  and  must  be  again. 

"I  am  organist  of  Sherborne  Abbey  Church,"  said 
David  slowly. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary.  The  smile  on  his  face  was 
demurely  visible  on  hers.  She  knew  that  their  golden 
hour  had  come.  Pride  had  waited  till  there  was  some- 
thing more  to  offer  than  protestations  of  fidelity. 
She  respected  this,  although  not  quite  able  to  under- 
stand it.  When  his  hand  touched  her  hand,  she  thrilled. 
Their  eyes  met,  with  no  shadow  to  obscure  that  first, 
long,  penetrating  glance.  Each  sighed,  drawing  closer 
together,  in  a  communion  of  the  spirit,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  emotion,  of  life  renewing  itself  in  life.  Maid  and 
man  saw  the  dear  image  in  the  other's  eyes,  which  to 
each  represented  the  incarnation  of  what  is  noblest  and 
most  lovely.  Such  a  moment  comes  not  to  all,  and 
it  means  to  the  few  a  revelation  of  the  Highest. 

In  the  garden  there  was  silence.  The  sun  had  sunk 
beneath  the  horizon,  but  the  glow  still  lingered.  Spring, 
with  tender  fingers,  touched  the  buds  upon  the  trees. 


58  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

A  million  tiny  blades  of  grass  were  piercing  the  tumid 
earth  awakened  after  the  long,  rejuvenating  sleep  of 
winter.  In  every  living  thing  the  sap  was  flowing. 

Fermor,  that  same  night,  listened  smiling  to  the  old 
story,  knowing  that  Mary  had  taken  his  place,  and 
yielding  it  ungrudgingly,  rejoicing  because  what  had 
been  denied  to  him  was  given  in  such  brimming  measure 
to  his  son.  When  David  finished,  he  said  quietly: 

"Of  all  the  women  I  have  known,  Mary  is  the  one 
I  picked  out  for  you.  She  is  without  guile." 

Something  in  his  tone  arrested  the  young  man's 
attention.  He  looked  into  Fermor' s  face. 

"  Did  you  pick  out  Mary  for  me  ?"  he  asked  wonder- 
ingly. 

Fermor  nodded. 

"The  Professor  and  I  came  long  ago  to  the  con- 
clusion that  nothing  could  be  more  —  appropriate. 
I  suppose  Mary  is  telling  him  ?" 

"Yes.  We  agreed  to  break  our  wonderful  news, 
which  is  so  stale,  at  exactly  the  same  moment.  Mary 
is  now  sitting  on  the  Professor's  lap,  with  her  arm 
around  his  neck  and  her  lips  at  his  ear,  and  of  course 
he  is  saying, '  Fermor  and  I  long  ago  settled  this  affair.' ' 

Fermor  laughed. 

"We  have  been  blind,"  said  David,  and  he  laughed 
too,  feeling  the  pressure  of  the  hand  that  had  led  him, 
step  by  step,  to  the  right  woman.  "  But,  father,  when 
did  you  guess  ?" 

"Ten  years  ago." 


CONCERNING  MARY  PIGNEROL       59 

"Ten  years  ago,  I  asked  Mary  to  marry  me!" 

"The  Professor  and  I  worried  over  that  a  little." 

"  I  remember  his  taking  me  aside  when  I  was  fourteen 
and  in  a  sort  of  way  putting  me  on  my  honour  to  stop 
kissing  her." 

"He  didn't  want  you  to  cheapen  your  own  goods." 

"I  never  kissed  her  again  till  to-day." 

Fermor  went  out,  and  appeared  a  moment  later  in 
cap  and  cape. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"Lovers  are  not  only  blind,  but  stupid.  Of  course 
I  am  going  to  climb  Green  Hill  to  drink  Mary's  health 
and  yours  in  a  glass  of  champagne." 

"You  and  the  Professor  arranged  that  this  after- 
noon ?" 

"Yes.     Come  on!" 

"Don't  tell  me  that  the  Vicar  will  be  there  ?" 

"I  should  not  be  surprised." 

In  the  Professor's  room,  Mary  was  standing  opposite 
to  her  father,  and  insisting  upon  her  unworthiness 
to  become  the  wife  of  a  genius.  Louis  Pignerol  would 
have  none  of  this  self-depreciation,  conscious  that  it 
cast  a  slur  upon  himself. 

"Ma  mignonne"  he  said,  "let  us  have  done  with 
this  imbecile  talk." 

"I  am  so  insignificant,"  said  Mary  desperately. 

"It  is  true  you  might  be  larger,"  her  father  admitted, 
"  but  for  me  the  outside  is  nothing  —  nothing  at  all." 
With  a  wave  of  his  hand,  he  seemed  to  despatch 
Mary's  small  body  to  some  unconsidered  limbo. 


60  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Your  mind,  my  darling,  and  above  all  your  inner 
mind,  makes  you  David's  superior." 

"I  shall  be  furious  if  you  say  that.  And  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  knew  what  my  inner  mind  is." 

"You  will  in  time,  my  child.  For  the  moment  you 
must  take  your  father's  word  that  it  is  of  fine  quality. 
And  now  I  am  going  into  the  cellar  to  bring  up  the 
champagne.  You  will  instruct  our  faithful  Babette 
to  take  some  glasses  into  the  dining-room;  the  others 
will  be  here  directly." 

"One  moment,  dear.  David  says  we  shall  be  very 
poor." 

"  Poor  ?  You  will  begin  with  £250  a  year  —  six 
thousand,  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  Name  of  a 
pipe!  what  more  do  you  want?  Your  mother  and  I 
began  with  much  less." 

"I'm  not  a  bit  afraid,  but  I  don't  think  David  will 
be  contented." 

"If  he  isn't,  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  him  very 
seriously.  Kiss  me,  Marykins,  and  skedaddle!" 

Mary  laughed.  She  ordered  the  glasses  to  be  sent 
into  the  dining-room,  and  then  she  ran  upstairs  to 
peer  into  her  looking-glass. 

For  those  of  us  who  cannot  behold  inner  minds,  it 
is  heartrending  to  admit  that  Mary  had  not  a  single 
beautiful  feature.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  of  a  clear 
blue-gray  in  tint,  but  too  small;  her  nose  had  a  skyward 
tilt  to  it;  her  mouth,  filled  with  excellent  teeth,  had 
been  described  by  a  cheeky  young  brother  as  a  hole 
in  her  face.  The  chin,  round  and  well  developed, 


CONCERNING  MARY  PIGNEROL       61 

indicating  strength  of  character,  might  have  been 
considered  masculine,  had  it  not  displayed  a  delightful 
dimple.  And  at  the  left  corner  of  her  mouth,  whenever 
she  laughed  —  and  she  laughed  often  —  another  dimple 
seemed  to  play  hide-and-seek  with  fugitive  wrinkles 
on  the  nose.  Brown  hair,  with  a  natural  wave  in  it, 
growing  low  upon  a  wide  brow,  a  pale  complexion, 
and  delicately  formed  ears  completed  a  whole  which 
was  summed  up  by  the  Sherborne  spinsters  as  "nice- 
looking."  Her  figure,  as  has  been  said,  was  small 
and  slender.  Of  adventitious  aids  to  beauty,  she 
wore  with  distinction  simple  little  gowns  which  she 
made  herself,  having  an  allowance  of  thirty  pounds  a 
year. 

She  grimaced  in  the  glass  and  then,  smiling  cheer- 
fully, picked  up  a  photograph  of  Archdale.  Seeing 
her  at  that  moment,  even  the  cheeky  young  brother 
would  have  said  that  she  was  beautiful.  She  looked 
as  she  had  appeared  to  David  in  the  garden :  the  "  Primal 
Fair,"  as  Plato  says,  "not  made  after  the  fashion  of 
gold,  or  raiment,  or  those  forms  of  earth  —  whom  now 
beholding  thou  art  stricken  dumb,  and  fain,  if  it  were 
possible,  without  thought  of  meat  or  drink,  wouldst 
look  and  love  for  ever." 

David's  photograph  did  him  justice,  although  Mary 
would  have  contradicted  this.  He  was  tall  and  finely 
proportioned;  and  his  head  was  magnificent  —  what 
the  head  of  a  musician  ought  to  be.  The  brow  chal- 
lenged attention  by  virtue  of  its  width  and  frontal 
development;  beneath  it  shone  the  eyes  of  a  child, 


62  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

limpidly  blue,  and  with  a  curious  far-seeing  quality. 
Other  features  indicated  sensibility  rather  than  strength, 
although  the  strength  might  come  in  time.  It  was 
still  the  head  of  a  boy. 

Mary  replaced  the  photograph  and  descended  to 
the  drawing-room.  Upon  the  walls  hung  a  few  prints 
in  colour.  Glazed  bookcases,  filled  with  well-bound 
books,  stood  beneath  these.  The  furniture,  of  the 
best  Empire  period,  had  belonged  to  the  Professor's 
grandfather,  Marshal  Pignerol,  a  cousin  of  the  famous 
engineer  who  at  Angers  instructed  Wellington  in  the 
science  of  fortification.  The  carpet,  a  genuine 
Aubusson,  faded  and  threadbare,  but  still  exquisite  in 
tone,  was  even  older  than  the  cabinets  and  writing- 
table.  Madame  Recamier  had  stood  upon  it,  and 
Mirabeau,  and,  possibly,  le  petit  Caporal  himself. 

It  was  characteristic  of  our  Professor  that,  under- 
rating these  treasures,  he  refused  to  sell  them.  He 
admitted,  with  reluctance,  that  he  had  been  extrava- 
gant in  the  binding  of  books.  And  in  and  out  of  season 
he  denounced  luxury  and  all  things,  indeed,  which 
titillate  unduly  the  senses.  At  the  same  time,  he  had 
little  tolerance  for  teachers  who  would  exclude  from 
the  food  of  mankind  flesh  of  mammals,  birds,  fish,  and 
every  liquid  which  contains  alcohol.  Upon  the  phy- 
sical plane,  he  contended,  physical  pleasures  should 
be  enjoyed.  The  Pignerols  lived  simply,  but  no  one 
had  eaten  badly  cooked  food  in  their  house  or  drunk 
bad  wine.  Well-nourished  and  cautious  Britons  might 
be  called  upon  to  taste  some  succulent  fungus,  with 


CONCERNING  MARY  PIGNEROL        63 

a  terrifying  Latin  name,  but  they  were  never  offered 
leathery  omelettes. 

Almost  immediately,  Fermor  and  David  came  in, 
and  soon  afterward  the  Vicar,  who,  cornered  by 
Mary,  admitted  that  he  alone  had  not  been  quite 
sure. 

"We  feel,"  said  David  ruefully,  "that  we  have  not 
been  free  agents." 

"Puppets,"  added  Mary. 

After  this,  they  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  the 
Professor  delivered  a  speech,  which  was  impromptu, 
and  yet,  in  a  sense,  a  digest  of  the  Pignerol  philosophy 
and  experience.  While  speaking,  he  used  many  ges- 
tures, and  when  excited,  his  grizzled  hair  seemed  to 
stand  out  like  a  mane.  Upon  his  rugged,  kindly  face 
smiles  flashed  with  electrical  scintillation. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "  this  is  a  very  great  wine, 
and  we  must  make  the  most  of  it,  sip  it,  inhale  its  bou- 
quet, and  not  gulp  it  down  as  if  it  were  small  ale.  I 
bought  it  expressly  for  this  occasion.  .  .  ." 

David,  sitting  next  to  Mary,  whispered:  "The  last 
straw!" 

The  Professor,  with  a  gesture  exacting  silence,  con- 
tinued: "The  manufacture  of  champagne  is  a  com- 
plex process  of  which  you  will  find  a  full  account 
in  any  encyclopaedia,  but  I  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  only  picked  grapes  are  used,  not  one  imperfect 
berry  is  allowed  in  the  vat,  and  the  quality  of  these 
grapes  varies,  as  you  know,  according  to  climatic 
conditions  which  we  need  not  particularize  to-night. 


64  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

My  point  is:  the  curious  correlation  between  the  pro- 
cesses which  go  to  the  making  of  a  perfect  wine,  and 
the  processes,  even  more  complex,  which  are  likely  to 
bring  about  a  perfect  marriage." 

The  cheeky  young  brother  murmured :  "  Hear,  hear!" 

"Tats  toil"  said  the  father. 

"  In  the  production  of  the  best  champagne,  my  dear 
friends,  both  black  and  white  grapes  are  used :  the  black 
representing,  let  us  say,  the  robuster  male  type.  Where 
there  is  excess  of  the  darker  berry  we  find  a  richer 
and  more  golden  wine.  And  the  finest  quality  comes 
from  the  first  pressing.  But  the  sparkle,  the  life,  the 
bubbling  vitality  is  due  to  the  presence  of  sugar. 
Remember  that,  you  two!  Englishmen  like  their  wine 
and  their  wit  and  their  wives  a  thought  heavy  and  dry. 
Englishwomen  of  age  and  experience  tell  young  girls 
to  suppress  feeling,  to  simulate  coldness;  in  a  word, 
to  withhold  the  sugar.  My  Mary  will  not  make  that 
mistake.  She  is  full  of  sweetness,  of  natural  gaiety 
and  force.  Hold  up  thy  head,  my  dear  little  hen! 
Whence  comes  this  force  ?  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  every- 
where. We  can  help  ourselves  freely.  The  very  young 
and  pure,  unknown  to  themselves,  are  saturated  with  it. 
And  with  every  act  of  self-denial  that  force  increases; 
with  every  act  of  self-indulgence,  it  diminishes. 
Used  unworthily,  for  mere  greed's  sake  or  personal 
ambition,  it  will  raise  the  humblest  man  to  the  apex 
of  that  pyramid  we  call  worldly  success.  Used  nobly, 
for  the  amelioration  of  lives  less  happy  than  our  own, 
it  will  raise  us  to  the  very  throne  of  God. 


CONCERNING  MARY  PIGNEROL       65 

"My  friends,  I  speak  from  my  heart,  which  is 
brimming  over  to-night,  for  I  am  gaining  a  son,  who 
for  many  years  now  I  have  loved  and  esteemed.  Of 
all  of  us  here,  he  has  been  the  most  richly  endowed. 
To  him  has  been  vouchsafed  the  supreme  gift  of 
harmony.  We  heard  him  this  afternoon,  transposing 
into  sweet  sounds  the  story  of  our  magnificent  Abbey 
Church.  He  is  as  yet  a  student,  at  work  upon  still 
life.  Soon  he  will  concern  himself  with  real  life,  and 
it  may  be  that  he  will  prove  himself  capable  of  express- 
ing in  immemorial  music  the  hopes  and  fears,  the 
joys  and  sorrows,  of  a  mighty  nation.  My  friends, 
let  us  drink  to  David  and  Mary." 

"To  David  and  Mary,"  repeated  the  Vicar  and 
Fermor. 

Before  the  lovers  parted  that  night,  they  had  a  few 
words  together. 

"I  go  to  London  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  said 
David. 

"What  for?" 

"To  buy  a  ring,"  he  whispered. 

"Oh!  David,  aren't  the  shops  here  good  enough  for  a 
poor  organist  ? " 

"Not  good  enough  for  you."  He  kissed  her  ear. 
"  I've  been  saving  up  for  years  and  years." 

"You,  too,  made  sure?" 

"Didn't  you?" 

She  laughed. 

"What  an  open  secret  it  has  been!" 


66  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  the  almighty  Lorimer, 
asking  me  to  call  upon  him." 

Lorimer  was  the  head  of  the  great  firm  who  had 
published  the  tonal  poems,  and  was  not  given  to  wasting 
his  time  or  that  of  others. 

"I  suppose  it  means  something." 

"  It  may  mean  a  lot.  Mary,  now  that  you  are  mine, 
I  have  become  ambitious.  I  have  a  hankering  for 
cheques." 

"  Don't  you  ever  dare  to  lay  the  blame  of  that  on  me ! " 

"  Mary !     What  flashing  eyes ! " 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  answered:  "I  am  afraid 
of  money  coming  between  us." 

"When  I  want  it  to  spend  on  you  ?" 

"I  shall  be  quite  happy  without  money.  I  have 
never  had  money,  nor  has  father.  Don't  hanker  after 
cheques  to  give  to  me.  Promise  that?" 

"But  cheques  mean  recognition.  If  it  is  true  that 
I  have  something  to  say,  it  ought  to  be  said  to  an 
audience." 

Mary  hesitated.  She  had  not  inherited  the  Pro- 
fessor's powers  of  speech,  and  she  realized  that  David 
would  have  the  better  of  any  argument  upon  this  par- 
ticular theme.  And  the  full  understanding  of  how  he 
felt  made  protest  seem  so  ungracious,  although  instinct 
confirmed  the  conviction  that  her  lover,  because  of  his 
love  for  her,  might  confound  shadow  —  for  so  she  had 
been  taught  to  regard  material  things  —  for  substance. 
When  she  felt  his  kisses  upon  her  lips,  she  thought: 

"The  nightingale  sings  to  his  mate,  unconscious  that 
the  world  is  listening." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    FLESHPOTS    OF    EGYPT 

DAVID  bought  Mary's  ring  at  a  famous  shop  in 
Bond   Street,  selecting  a  square  tourmaline 
surrounded  by  tiny  brilliants.     The  stone 
was  parti-coloured:  a  green  exterior  very  translucent, 
with  a  red  nucleus.     As  he  came  out  of  the  shop,  a 
lady    seated    in    a    victoria    beckoned.     It   was    Mrs. 
Stormont,  very  vivacious,  and  conveying  the  idea  of 
perpetual  motion,  although  sitting  still.     She  laughed 
gaily,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"You  are  coming  to  see  me?" 

David  explained  that  he  was  in  town  for  twenty- 
four  hours  only. 

"What  are  you  doing  this  evening,  Mr.  Archdale  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet." 

!<This  is  really  a  coincidence.  I  have  a  dinner  party 
to-night,  and  not  half  an  hour  ago  I  got  a  telegram  from 
a  tiresome  man  to  say  that  he  was  in  bed  with  'flu. 
Will  you  take  his  place  ?  It  will  be  charming  of  you. 
There!  It  is  settled,  is  it  not?" 

"You  are  very  kind." 

"Eight-fifteen." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  walked  away,  while  she 
reflected:  "What  a  face!  What  nice  manners!" 

David  walked  on  down  Bond  Street  till  he  came  to 


68  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

the  great  house  of  Lorimer.  Its  size  and  importance 
impressed  him  disagreeably.  In  the  retail  department 
he  beheld  many  young  men  with  apparently  very  little 
to  do.  Upon  all  sides  were  shelves  full  of  sheet  music: 
enough  to  supply  a  universe;  upon  the  counters  were 
stacks  of  popular  songs.  About  these  hovered  half  a 
dozen  women.  David  asked  if  the  Chief  was  accessible. 

"Have  you  an  appointment?" 

"  Mr.  Lorimer  invited  me  to  call.  My  name  is 
David  Archdale." 

"Certainly.     I'll  see  if  Mr.  Lorimer  is  disengaged." 

During  the  clerk's  absence  David  picked  up  a  cata- 
logue of  publications,  in  which  he  discovered  his  own 
name.  At  once  a  sense  of  being  "out  of  it,"  which 
already  had  made  him  regret  his  acceptance  of  Mrs. 
Stormont's  invitation,  gave  place  to  a  more  sanguine 
emotion.  After  all,  he  was  "in  it."  The  time  would 
come  when  slightly  supercilious  young  men,  in  irre- 
proachable frock  coats,  would  no  longer  ask  his  name 
in  this  establishment.  After  a  minute  or  two  he  crossed 
the  big  room  to  look  at  the  pianos.  A  civil  middle-aged 
clerk  struck  a  few  chords,  and  from  his  rather  thin  lips 
trickled  a  rivulet  of  specialized  information,  and  then, 
remarking  David's  interest,  he  said:  "Are  you  a 
musician,  sir?" 

"  I'm  the  organist  at  Sherborne  Abbey  Church." 

"Indeed.     Not,  not,  surely,  Mr.  Fermor?" 

"He  has  just  resigned." 

"We  expected  great  things  of  Mr.  Fermor.  But, 
if  I  may  say  so,  he  never  found  his  public." 


THE  FLESHPOTS   OF  EGYPT  69 

"Perhaps  he  did  not  search  for  it." 

"Quite,  quite.     It  is  necessary  nowadays  to  search." 

The  first  clerk  appeared.  His  manner  seemed  to  be 
slightly  less  supercilious. 

"  Mr.  Lorimer  will  see  you,  sir.     This  way,  please/' 

They  passed  through  a  green  baize  door  and  up 
a  staircase.  On  the  landing  they  met  a  short,  rather 
squat  man,  with  a  white  pasty  face  and  a  thick  black 
beard.  The  clerk  whispered  into  David's  ear: 

"Mr.  Isidore  Schmaltz." 

"The   composer?" 

"Yes." 

David  stared.  The  clerk  added  solemnly:  "We 
have  sold  three  hundred  thousand  copies  of  his  new 
song." 

A  moment  later,  he  experienced  another  shock. 
Mr.  Lorimer  presented  the  appearance  of  a  prosperous 
stockbroker.  He  was  large,  of  sanguine  complexion, 
slightly  bald,  and  irreproachably  dressed.  His  small 
eyes,  very  bright,  with  many  humorous  lines  at  the 
corners  of  them,  blinked  when  he  saw  David. 

"  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  smoke  ? " 
The  smell  of  tobacco  smoke  was  rather  strong,  but  not 
unpleasantly  so. 

"I  smoke  a  pipe,"  said  David  as  he  took  a  chair. 

"A  whisky-and-soda,  Mr.  Archdale?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

Lorimer  picked  up  an  ivory  ruler  and  began  to 
balance  it  upon  his  forefinger.  David  felt  that  he  also 
was  being  weighed,  and  that  more  than  he  had  antici- 


7o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

pated  might  hang  upon  this  interview.  At  any  rate, 
Lorimer  was  civil. 

"  You  are  a  very  young  man/'  said  Lorimer  thought- 
fully, staring  at  the  ruler. 

"Twenty-three/* 

"I  should  like  to  speak  plainly  to  you." 

"Please  do  so." 

"You  have  enormous  talent,  perhaps  more.  But 
you  are  still  one  out  of  a  multitude  knocking  at  a  closed 
door.  Other  things  being  equal,  the  door  opens  to  the 
man  who  knocks  loudest.  Did  you  see  Schmaltz  ? 
You  did.  He  knocked  loudly." 

"You  allude  to  his  military  marches?" 

"  Not  altogether.  He  is  a  wonderful  puller  of  strings, 
with  a  nose — !  You  remarked  his  nose?" 

"  I  saw  a  large  nose." 

"  Which  would  do  credit  to  a  prize  pointer.  He  has 
followed  that  nose  faithfully,  and  pulled  all  strings 
available  at  the  same  time.  His  best  work  is  not 
comparable  to  your  tonal  poems." 

"Oh!"  said  David. 

"And  yet,  unhappily,  the  public  will  not  buy  your 
tonal  poems." 

"  I  have  other  things." 

"Mr.  Archdale,  have  you  any  influential  friends?" 

"  If  you  had  asked  me  that  question  the  day  before 
yesterday,  I  should  have  replied  '  None/  but  it  happens 
by  an  odd  coincidence  that  I  am  dining  to-night  with 
Mrs.  Stormont,  who  has  kindly  expressed  a  wish  to  help 


me." 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  71 

"  Mrs.  Stormont,  of  Stormont  Lodge  ?  You  are  very 
lucky.  Schmaltz  in  former  days  would  have  paid  a 
good  round  sum  to  dine  at  Stormont  Lodge." 

"But  I  don't  understand." 

"You  will,  you  will."  Lorimer  laughed  good- 
naturedly.  "Well,  back  your  luck.  Do  you  play  the 
piano  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Offer  to  play  to-night." 

"  But,  Mr.  Lorimer,  I  couldn't." 

"Teh  —  tch!  Mrs.  Stormont  gives  concerts.  She 
could,  if  she  liked,  make  your  reputation.  Don't 
misunderstand  me!  Mrs.  Stormont  couldn't  force  a 
duffer  down  London  throats,  but  you  are  not  a 
duffer.  Be  civil  to  her,  and  come  to  see  me 
again." 

David  understood  that  he  was  being  dismissed,  and 
yet,  from  a  business  point  of  view,  nothing  had  been 
accomplished.  He  took  leave,  feeling  depressed,  but 
determined  that  he  would  not  offer  to  play  the  piano 
at  Stormont  Lodge. 

"If  Mary  doesn't  care,"  he  reflected,  "why  should 
I  ?"  But  somehow  he  did  care.  It  was  intolerable 
to  think  that  the  door  might  remain  shut,  and  unthink- 
able to  force  an  entrance  by  Schmaltzian  methods. 
He  seldom  used  strong  language,  but  he  murmured 
to  himself,  twice:  "Damn  Isidore  Schmaltz."  The 
critics  had  done  this,  mercilessly,  without,  seem- 
ingly, any  prejudice  to  the  famous  writer  of  popular 
songs. 


72  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

David  dressed  for  dinner  early,  and,  the  night  being 
fine,  chose  to  walk  to  Stormont  Lodge.  As  he  walked, 
he  was  conscious  that  the  women  he  met  stared  at  him, 
and  some  smiled  brazenly.  One  minx  said  "Hello, 
angel!"  and  David  blushed,  warm  with  indignation 
and  pity.  Suddenly,  he  told  himself  that  he  loathed 
London,  and  sighed  for  a  magical  carpet  upon  which 
he  might  be  transported  to  Sherborne.  He  saw 
Fermor,  sitting  down  to  dine  alone  with  Mary.  This 
had  been  arranged.  After  dinner,  Fermor  would 
smoke  in  his  chair  by  the  open  fireplace,  and  Mary 
would  sit  upon  a  stool  near  him,  gazing  into  the  embers, 
listening  to  Fermor' s  tales  of  the  past,  and  out  of  them 
constructing  new  tales  for  the  future. 

At  Stormont  Lodge  the  sight  of  a  butler  and  three 
tall  footmen  brought  an  acute  spasm  of  distress,  and 
David  wondered  whether  this  was  perceptible  to  them. 
The  great  house  seemed  strangely  quiet  and  empty. 

"Am  I  the  first?"  he  inquired,  and  the  butler 
answered  suavely:  "Yes,  sir." 

As  he  ascended  the  stairs,  his  feet  sank  into  a  thick 
pile  carpet,  and  he  noticed  a  slightly  oriental  smell, 
which  was  very  pleasant  but  strange.  The  next 
moment  his  hostess  was  receiving  him. 

"You  will  take  such  a  pretty  girl  in  to  dinner,"  she 
said,  giving  him  a  friendly  smile,  "but  you  mustn't 
fall  in  love  with  her,  for  she's  snapped  up.  In  fact,  you 
are  here  instead  of  her  fiance,  Sir  Edward  Montagu, 
who  has  the  wonderful  collection  of  Nankin  china." 
Then,  perceiving  that  David  had  never  heard  either 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  73 

of  the  man  or  his  china,  she  added,  smilingly:  "Sir 
Edward's  father  was  old  Lazarus,  the  pawnbroker, 
so  keep  off  that  grass." 

David  laughed,  fascinated  by  a  charming  manner, 
and  just  then  a  tall,  thin,  cadaverous  man  entered  the 
drawing-room. 

"My  husband  —  Mr.  Archdale,  the  composer// 

Mr.  Stormont  held  out  rather  a  cold  limp  hand. 
'This  east  wind  is  beastly,"  he  said. 

Other  guests  began  to  arrive,  and  a  buzz  of  chatter 
vibrated  through  the  room.  David  had  time  and 
opportunity  to  glance  at  his  surroundings.  Never  had 
he  seen  so  many  beautiful  things  gathered  together  in 
a  private  house.  And  they  were  arranged  with  con- 
summate taste,  with  a  judicious  nicety  of  selection,  in 
itself  an  art.  But  not  a  person  present  seemed  to  look 
at  the  porcelain,  or  furniture,  or  pictures.  They 
stared  at  each  other,  pleasantly  or  boldly,  and  David 
wondered  whether  the  background  was  taken  for 
granted  as  being  the  stage-setting  in  which  they  moved 
habitually.  His  host,  seeing  him  alone,  sauntered  up 
to  him. 

"Have  you  been  here  before  ?"  he  asked. 

"Never,"  said  David. 

"Forgive  my  askin'.  Such  a  lot  of  'em  come  and 
go,  that  I  get  dazed.  Never  could  remember  faces 
or  names.  Let  me  see,  you're  the  new  member  for 
Bilton-on-Tees,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  an  organist,"  said  David,  smiling. 

Mr.   Stormont  stared   and   nodded. 


74  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  muttered.  ''  You  are  to  be  the  English 
Beethoven.  I  remember  now." 

David,  somewhat  confused,  said  somewhat  hastily: 

"Are  those  Chelsea  figures  ?" 

Mr.  Stormont  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know.  I  believe  we  have  some  Chelsea, 
or  is  it  Swansea?  You  must  ask  my  wife.  Lord! 
what  a  crowd,  but,  thank  heaven!  they  don't  expect 
me  to  talk  to  'em/' 

Above  the  chatter,  David  had  heard  the  butler 
announcing  the  names  of  the  guests.  Certainly  the 
company  was  worthy  of  its  setting.  Men  distinguished 
in  art  and  science  and  politics  brought  their  wives 
and  daughters  to  Stormont  Lodge. 

"They  all  do  something,"  whispered  the  melancholy 
host.  "I  wish  they  didn't,  because,  you  see,  I'm 
expected  to  remember  what  they've  done,  and  I  get 
'em  mixed  up,  as  I  did  you." 

He  shambled  oft  to  greet  a  cabinet  minister.  David 
caught  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Stormont.  She  gave  a  beckon- 
ing nod,  and  a  moment  later  the  young  man  was  being 
introduced  to  Miss  Evelyn  Kerr-Stuart,  who  looked 
him  over  rather  coolly,  as  if  he  were  a  newly  discovered 
animal.  David  felt  tongue-tied.  The  girl  said  nothing 
and  Mrs.  Stormont,  whose  kindly  tact  would  have 
eased  the  situation,  was  talking  to  a  Serene  Highness. 
David,  wishing  that  the  earth  would  open  and  swallow 
him  up,  stammered  out:  "This  east  wind  is  beastly," 
and  the  girl  languidly  answered :  "  I  have  not  been  out 
all  day."  Then,  taking  pity  upon  his  confusion,  she 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  75 

added:  "There  are  worse  things  than  the  east  wind. 
I  have  been  writing  letters  to  people  who  have  sent 
me  wedding  presents.  Simply  awful." 

She  spoke  as  if  bored  to  tears  and  tired  out,  but  she 
looked  childishly  young  and  pretty,  certainly  not  more 
than  eighteen.  Round  her  slender  neck  was  a  single 
string  of  immense  pearls.  David  wondered  whether 
they  could  be  real. 

They  went  down  to  dinner. 

In  the  dining-room  another  surprise  awaited  David. 
Mrs.  Stormont  was  one  of  the  first  to  introduce  the 
practice  of  placing  her  guests  at  small  tables.  The 
effect  was  that  of  a  smart  restaurant.  In  the  hall, 
a  string  band  played  softly.  Each  of  the  small  tables 
had  its  scheme  of  decoration,  the  flowers  matching 
exactly  the  shades  upon  the  candles.  The  walls  of  the 
immense  room  were  in  comparative  darkness,  but  half 
a  dozen  portraits  were  vividly  illuminated. 

"Is   that   a  Velasquez?"    asked   David. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  famous  one,"  replied  the  girl. 

"He's  unmistakable,  isn't  he?" 

"  Is  he  ?  They  are  playing  that  waltz  of  Schmaltz. 
I  adore  Schmaltz,  don't  you?  How  stupid  of  me! 
Of  course  you  don't.  You  compose  yourself." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  for  taking  for  granted  that  I  cannot 
admire  the  work  of  others  ?" 

"  Rather,"  she  laughed  cynically.  :t  Jolly  good  din- 
ner." She  handed  the  menu  to  David,  adding:  "They 
do  you  awfully  well  here." 

Four    other    persons    sat    at    the    same    table:    all 


76  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

young  and  nice-looking.  Miss  Kerr-Stuart  nodded  to 
them. 

"Hullo,  Jimmie!  Hullo,  Tommie!  Is  that  you, 
Bunchie  ?  Haven't  seen  you  for  ages.  By  the  way, 
I  was  commanded  to  introduce  Mr.  Archdale,  who 
is  a  composer.  I  asked  him  if  he  adored  Schmaltz." 

"We  heard  you,"  said  Tommy  gravely.  "Since 
your  engagement  you  have  taken  to  shouting."  He 
looked  pleasantly  at  David,  and  added:  "She  thinks 
herself  a  personage." 

Miss  Kerr-Stuart  flipped  a  pellet  of  bread  at  him,  and 
said,  with  finality:  "So  I  am." 

David  felt  a  little  easier.  These  strangers  seemed  to 
accept  him  without  question.  Evidently,  they  wished 
to  be  friendly.  The  young  man  addressed  as  Tommy 
was  the  new  Member  for  Bilton-on-Tees,  and  one  of 
the  most  active  and  enterprising  of  the  younger  politi- 
cians. Jimmie,  he  discovered,  was  a  popular  actor, 
and  about  to  appear  in  a  new  play.  This  afforded 
a  topic  of  general  conversation. 

"They're  advertising  you,"   said  Miss   Kerr-Stuart. 

"  I  insisted  on  that.  Name  in  electric  light  outside 
the  theatre.  Down  in  the  contract,  by  Jove!" 

"Good  play?" 

"Can't  say.     I've  a  thumping  part." 

"Who  wrote  the  play?"  asked  David. 

To  his  amazement  nobody  knew,  except  Jimmie,  and 
from  his  tone  it  was  evident  that  he  thought  the  play- 
wright a  negligible  quantity.  The  young  lady  addressed 
as  "Bunchie"  asked  demurely:  "Is  it  true,  Jimmie, 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  77 

that  you  and  Flora  are  not  on  speaking  terms  ?"  She 
turned  to  David  as  she  spoke,  adding,  for  the  stranger's 
benefit:  "Flora  Templeton  is  his  leading  lady." 

"We've  made  it  up.  She's  a  little  devil  —  and  no 
mistake.  I  choked  the  life  nearly  out  of  her  at  yester- 
day's rehearsal,  and,  to-day,  she  was  all  smiles.  What 
she  wants  is  a  good  hiding!" 

"How  illiterate  you  mummers  are,"  said  the  girl 
who  had  not  yet  spoken.  "You  mean,  I  suppose, 
that  she  needs  a  good  hiding." 

"Mark  up  one  for  Kate!"  exclaimed  the  Member 
for  Bilton-on-Tees. 

Jimmie  growled  out:  "You  be  hanged!" 

"Seen  'The  Breadwinners'?" 

"Went  the  first  night,"  replied  Jimmie.  'That 
fellow  Barton  is  impossible.  He  wore  a  pair  of  boots 
I  wouldn't  be  found  dead  in,  and  he  kept  stuffing  his 
handkerchief  into  the  pocket  of  his  trousers." 

David,  conscious  that  his  pocket-handkerchief  was  in 
precisely  the  same  place,  betrayed  the  fact  to  Kate, 
who  said  crisply:  "Mr.  Archdale  agrees  with  me, 
that  keeping  your  handkerchief  in  your  trousers-pocket 
is  not  an  unpardonable  sin."  She  smiled  sympatheti- 
cally at  David,  adding:  "Mr.  James  Travis  keeps 
his  up  his  sleeve.  He  keeps  nothing  else  up  there." 

"Two  for  Kate!"  proclaimed  the  Member  for 
Bilton-on-Tees. 

Kate  Melbury  had  written  a  remarkable  novel: 
"The  Torch."  She  was  small,  and  much  more  simply 
dressed  than  the  other  girls.  Her  face,  neither  pretty 


78  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

nor  plain,  had  fascination,  because  of  its  fastidiousness. 
David  liked  her  at  once.  He  noticed  that  she  ate  and 
drank  sparingly,  whereas  the  others  gobbled  up  every- 
thing set  before  them,  with  astonishing  swiftness  and 
appetite.  Miss  Melbury  continued  sweetly: 

"Mr.  Barton  gave  us  a  magnificent  performance." 

"  Provincial,"  said  Jimmie.  "  Sort  of  thing  that  goes 
down  in  Manchester,  my  dear  Kate." 

"One  for  Jimmie,"  said  the  M.P. 

Miss  Melbury,  it  seemed,  had  bloomed  into  public 
notice  at  Manchester. 

"P0x,"  said  Jimmie,  appealingly.     "I  want  to  eat." 

The  dinner  was  not  too  long,  and  admirably  served. 
Presently,  Miss  Kerr-Stuart  engaged  David  in  more 
intimate  talk.  Perceiving  his  qualities  as  a  listener, 
she  prattled  of  herself. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married  next  month,  as  I  daresay 
you  know." 

"So  am  I,  Miss  Stuart." 

He  regretted  the  admission,  as  it  fell  naturally  from 
his  lips.  The  girl  stared  and  laughed. 

"But  you're  awfully  young." 

"Are  you  very,  very  old  ?" 

She  answered  the  implied  question  with  candour. 

"A  girl  must  marry  when  her  big  chance  comes.  A 
man  can  afford  to  wait.  Have  you  snapped  up  an 
heiress?" 

"No." 

"I  see."  She  sank  her  voice.  "It's  a  romance. 
You  look  romantic.  A  propos,  what  have  you  written: 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  79 

songs  —  waltzes  —  musical  comedy  ?  Or  —  grand 
opera?" 

"  Principally  ecclesiastical  music.     I'm  an  organist." 

Her  expression  of  stupefaction  made  him  laugh. 

"  An  organist  ?     What  must  you  think  of  -  -  us ! " 

"  I  think  you  have  been  very  nice  to  an  outsider." 

"You  must  think  us  so  frivolous  and  ribald.  Do 
you?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Well,  we  are.  It  seems  quite  odd  your  being  here. 
If  I'd  known,  Yd  have  tried  to  behave  myself.  That's 
too  late  now.  You  wear  a  surplice  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  becoming."     Then  she  laughed. 

"What  is  the  joke,  Miss  Stuart?" 

"I  was  trying  to  picture  my  old  young  man  in  a 
surplice.  How  funny  he  would  look.  Tommy,  dear, 
how  do  you  think  Edward  would  look  in  a  surplice  ?" 

"Don't,  Evie.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  What 
put  this  nightmare  thought  into  your  head  ?" 

"Mr.  Archdale.     He  wears  one." 

Everybody  stopped  thinking,  staring  at  David  with 
varying  expressions  of  astonishment  and  amusement. 
Jimmie,  whose  intelligence  was  slightly  fuddled  by 
much  champagne,  said  gaspingly:  "  He's  not  a  parson  ?" 

"Let  us  be  perfectly  calm,"  said  Evie.  "Mr.  Arch- 
dale  plays  the  organ,  and  he  writes  fugues  and  things." 

"  He  has  written  two  tonal  poems  of  great  distinction,' 
said  Miss  Melbury.  "  If  you  were  not  all  of  you  so 
ignorant,  you  would  know  that." 


8o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

She  smiled  once  more  upon  David,  with  a  tilt  of  her 
small  chin,  as  if  to  say:  "We  two  are  superior  to  these 
duffers."  At  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Stormont  rose, 
and  the  ladies  swept  out  of  the  room.  As  Kate  Melbury 
passed  David  she  whispered:  "Mind  you  come  and 
talk  to  me  afterward." 

Most  of  the  men  gathered  round  the  biggest  table 
which  formed  a  circle  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Coffee  and  cigars  were  brought  in.  A  tall,  distinguished 
man  approached  David. 

"Mrs.  Stormont  has  been  telling  me  about  you," 
he  began,  easily.  "  And  I  wondered  if  you  were  any 
relation  to  Jack  Archdale,  who  was  in  the  Cavalry." 

"My  father." 

"You  don't  say  so.  I  am  General  Denison.  I 
knew  your  father  very  well  indeed.  Is  he  —  forgive 
the  question!  —  still  alive  ?" 

"He  died  when  I  was  a  child." 

"Urn.     He  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the 

S*      » 
ervice. 

David  held  his  tongue.  For  many  years  he  had  not 
thought  of  his  father,  except  as  a  vague  but  terrifying 
shadow  upon  the  screen  of  memory.  His  aunt,  Miss 
Vawdrey,  was  dead,  also,  and  of  other  relations  he 
knew  little  or  nothing.  But  this  sudden  mention  of 
the  dead  man  by  a  distinguished  general  supplied 
the  missing  link  between  people  who  seemed  to  belong 
to  another  planet  and  himself.  It  established  a  tele- 
pathy. He  felt  for  the  first  time  an  attraction,  and  an 
interest  not  easy  to  analyze.  General  Denison  talked 


THE   FLESHPOTS   OF  EGYPT  81 

on,  discursively,  in  a  tone  of  friendly  intimacy,  which 
penetrated  David's  reserve,  and  evoked  answers  to 
half  a  dozen  questions.  Obviously,  this  gallant  warrior, 
whose  name  was  a  household  word  throughout  the 
empire,  regarded  Jack  Archdale's  boy  as  an  equal. 
Hitherto,  David  had  been  made  to  realize  that  his 
social  position,  as  the  adopted  son  of  an  organist,  was 
somewhat  lower  than  that  of  the  Sherborne  parsons 
and  dominies,  and  a  rung  higher,  not  more,  than  the 
principal  tradesmen.  The  magnates  of  the  county  had 
ignored  his  existence.  This  had  been  accepted  by 
David  as  natural  and  convenient.  Fermor  had  been 
the  first  to  make  plain  to  the  boy  that  social  distinc- 
tions in  Dorset  are  arbitrary  and  inevitable. 

David  joined  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  with 
a  more  assured  bearing  and  a  smile  which  became 
him  very  well.  He  found  Kate  Melbury  upon  an 
ottoman  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  As  he  sat  down, 
she  said  with  a  faint  blush:  "I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  I  know  nothing  about  your  tonal  poems. 
Mrs.  Stormont  happened  to  tell  me  just  before  dinner 
that  you  had  written  two.  I  wanted  to  make  the 
others  sit  up/' 

David  murmured:  "I  have  not  read  'The  Torch." 

She  said  volubly:  "Isn't  this  a  menagerie?  I 
come  here  to  get  copy,  although,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Stormont  is  a  dear,  and  most  awfully  kind.  I  used 
to  be  frightened  and  quite  amazed  at  what  I  saw  and 
heard,  but  now  - 

"It  seems  natural?" 


82  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"I  don't  say  that.  It  seems  natural  to  them.  At 
first  I  thought  it  was  theatrical,  unreal,  but  it  isn't. 
This  is  their  life.  And,  mind  you,  you  meet  the  vital 
people  here,  and  every  man  has  an  axe  to  grind." 

"  But  why  don't  they  grind  their  axes  at  home  ?" 

"What  a  question!  I  put  it  to  myself  once.  That 
was  when  I  first  came  up  from  Manchester,  before  I 
went  on  my  own." 

"You  are  on  your  own?" 

"I'm  twenty-eight,  although — thank  goodness!  - 
I  don't  look  it.     Yes;  I  have  a  nice  flat  near  Sloane 
Square.     You  must  come  to  see  me.     Will  you  name 
a  day  for  luncheon  ?" 

"I  am  returning  to  Sherborne  to-morrow.  Do  you 
live  entirely  by  yourself?" 

"Of  course.  My  father  is  a  Manchester  cotton- 
spinner.  He  was  very  stuffy  at  first,  but  I  made  myself 
so  disagreeable  he  was  quite  glad  to  let  me  go.  I 
wouldn't  go  back  to  the  old  life  for  a  million  a  year. 
You'll  feel  the  same  about  Sherborne  some  day." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"You  will,  you  will.  They  are  all  asleep  in  the  pro- 
vinces. If  you  want  to  live,  you  must  come  to  London. 
Hullo!  Here's  Evie  Kerr-Stuart  coming  to  disturb  us." 

Evie  approached  and  said  in  a  shrill  voice:  "We 
want  you  to  play,  Mr.  Archdale.  Mrs.  Stormont  never 
asks  her  guests  to  do  parlour  tricks,  but  you  will  play, 
won't  you  ?  to  please  me.  Do!" 

"I'd  really  rather  not,"  said  David.  He  looked 
from  one  girl  to  the  other.  Kate  Melbury  said  de- 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  83 

cidedly:  "Take  my  tip,  and  get  it  over.  Sooner 
or  later,  you'll  be  nailed.  Why  not  now  ?" 

David  got  up  rather  stiffly. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Miss  Stuart.     Where  is  the  piano  ?" 

"Piano?  Mrs.  Stormont  has  a  lovely  organ,  and 
the  most  delightful  music-room  in  London." 

She  flitted  from  group  to  group,  saying:  "Mr.  Arch- 
dale  is  going  to  play.  He  has  written  some  marvellous 
tonal  poems  —  quite,  quite  wonderful." 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Stormont. 

She  led  the  way  into  the  next  room,  which  was 
empty,  with  the  exception  of  a  grand  piano  and  an 
organ.  The  guests  followed,  chattering  in  slightly 
subdued  tones. 

"What  shall  I  play,  Mrs.  Stormont?" 

"Something  of  your  own,  please:  an  improvisation." 

"Very  well." 

Once  more  Evelyn  Kerr-Stuart  flew  round  the  room, 
whispering:  "He  is  going  to  improvise.  I  do  think 
him  so  handsome,  don't  you?" 

David  sat  down,  rather  flustered,  and  looked  at  the 
instrument:  a  very  fine  one.  And  in  his  mind  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  Mr.  Stormont's  melancholy  voice 
saying:  "This  east  wind  is  beastly."  And  at  the  other 
end  of  the  big  room  people  were  whispering:  "His 
tonal  poems  are  exquisite,  really  gems,  you  know." 
Not  a  person  present  had  heard  them,  but  that  made 
no  difference.  Each  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  heard 
them. 

David  began  to  play.     Because  he  was  young  and 


84  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

handsome  and  a  stranger,  his  audience  was  courteous 
enough  to  be  silent,  but  the  prelude  was  bald  and 
commonplace.  He  was  playing  to  people  who  heard 
the  best  and  were  intolerant  of  anything  mediocre. 
One  by  one  they  began  to  whisper  and  talk,  till  the 
room  was  buzzing  with  prattle.  David  heard  them 
and  set  his  teeth.  He  knew  that  he  had  made  a  bad 
start. 

"They  shall  stop  talking,"  he  said  to  himself. 

And  then,  he  forgot  everything  save  the  fact  that  he 
was  seated  at  a  fine  organ,  with  a  mind  aflame  with 
emotions  which  he  could  transpose  into  sound. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  babbling  voices  droned  away 
into  silence.  In  that  wonderful  language,  which  alone 
expresses  adequately  all  that  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  feeling,  David  was  telling  Mrs.  Stormont's  guests 
the  story  of  his  life,  culminating  with  the  scene  in  the 
garden,  when  Mary  promised  to  become  his  wife. 
He  was  hardly  conscious  of  this,  but  he  did  know  that 
at  the  supreme  moment  when  failure  and  humiliation 
impended,  he  had  seemed  to  be  transported  to  Sher- 
borne  and  had  heard  in  his  ears  Mary's  soft  voice,  and 
those  other  innumerable  voices  —  the  choir  invisible 
of  birds,  and  soughing  trees,  and  running  water,  and 
sweet  bells,  and  children's  laughter  —  which,  ever 
since  he  could  remember,  had  resolved  themselves 
for  him  into  melody  and  harmony. 

The  theme  began  simply  and  quietly  in  G  minor, 
for  David  was  thinking  of  two  children,  walking  hand 
in  hand  through  a  garden  whose  beauty  slowly  revealed 


THE  FLESHPOTS  OF  EGYPT  85 

itself  to  their  wondering  eyes.  Delicately,  with  the 
restraint  of  a  true  artist,  he  reproduced  that  beauty 
in  a  succession  of  harmonious  combinations,  and  then, 
holding  the  key-note  while  he  changed  the  stops,  he 
altered  the  tempo,  quickening  the  pace  of  the  children 
into  a  joyous  dance,  fairylike  in  its  variety  and  melodic 
charm,  a  dance  of  Spring  leaping  to  meet  Summer. 
And  interwoven  with  the  principal  theme  were  sub- 
sidiary embellishments:  the  amorous  sigh  of  the  west 
wind  as  it  fertilized  the  purple  flower-buds  of  the  elm, 
the  whirring  of  insects'  wings,  the  haunting  cry  of  the 
cuckoo  —  all  melting  at  last  into  a  brilliant  finale 
in  the  major  key:  the  triumph  of  Love. 

When  he  left  the  organ  he  was  very  pale,  hardly 
conscious  of  what  he  had  done  or  of  its  effect  upon 
his  audience.  And  for  a  moment  those  present  looked 
at  him  in  silence,  with  a  certain  awe,  touched  to  issues 
different  from  those  which  habitually  engrossed  them, 
perceiving,  as  through  a  veil,  the  Other  Side,  the 
Undiscovered  Country,  whither  each  was  going:  some 
reluctantly,  many  indifferently,  but  all  inevitably. 

Her  Serene  Highness  clapped  her  hands,  and  the 
spell  was  broken. 

"You  are  wonderful,  wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Stor- 
mont.  "Let  me  present  you  to  the  dear  Princess." 

Half  an  hour  later,  David  took  his  leave,  flushed 
with  triumph  and  excitement. 

"You  must  come  to  live  in  London,"  said  Mrs. 
Stormont. 


86  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

He  smiled  happily. 

"That  is  quite  impossible." 

The  great  lady  frowned,  but  her  voice  was  still 
pleasant  as  she  murmured:  "What  keeps  you  in 
Sherborne  ?" 

He  hesitated,  but  the  bright  inquisitive  eyes  seemed 
to  command  the  truth. 

"What  keeps  me  ?"  he  repeated.  "Gratitude  and 
love." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  THE   NEW   FOREST 

THE  honeymoon  was  spent  in  the  New  Forest, 
in  a   small  inn   upon   the   high   moorland. 
Each  day  the  lovers  wandered    through  a 
fairyland  of  vernal  loveliness,  ever  seeking  new  paths 
to  new  beauties,  and  then  returning  to  favourite  spots 
to  find  them  changed  by  sun  and  shower,  inhaling  the 
freshness  and  fragrance  of  Arcadia,   talking  eagerly, 
but  often  silent,  as  the  mystery  of  life  and  love  encom- 
passed them.     At  night,  they  fared  forth  again,  unable 
to  resist  the  call  of  the  forest. 

Upon  the  eve  of  their  return  to  Sherborne,  they  stayed 
out  late.  The  moon  shone  at  the  full,  playing  hide- 
and-seek  with  a  score  of  cloudlets.  The  air  was  soft  and 
mild,  heavy  with  moisture,  for  much  rain  had  fallen 
during  the  day.  Whenever  the  moon  appeared,  the 
landscape  was  revealed  with  silvery  clarity;  when  she 
slipped  behind  a  cloud,  trees  and  moor  became  obscure, 
and  the  lovers  seemed  to  be  alone  in  an  immeasurable 
void.  After  a  long  silence,  Mary  said: 

"David,  in  the  Abbey,  when  you  played  your 
miserere,  upon  the  day  when  you  asked  me  to  marry 
you,  I  prayed  that  I  might  go  first." 

Instantly,  she  felt  his  arms  about  her,  strong  arms 
likely  to  hold  fast  whatever  they  hold  dear. 

87 


88  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Mary!" 

"Then  I  prayed  that  I  might  live,  that  we  might 
both  live  for  a  long  time." 

"Dearest,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  that  we 
shall." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  have  a  conviction  to-night  that  I  shall  go  first, 
and  that  I  shall  go  soon." 

There  was  no  fear  in  her  voice,  but  a  strange  wonder 
and  awe. 

"Isn't  this  morbid?" 

"Oh,  no.  We  have  never  talked  of  death,  you  and 
I,  but  it  used  to  be  the  subject  of  many  talks  between 
father  and  me.  He  believes  in  reincarnation." 

"Do  you?" 

"I  am  not  sure.  That  is  where  father  is  so  wonder- 
ful. He  never  imposes  his  beliefs  upon  others.  He 
says  that  we  must  search  for  our  creeds,  and  build 
them  up,  humbly  but  hopefully.  I  hope  that  we  are 
given  other  chances,  innumerable  chances,  that  we  go 
on  and  on  till  we  are  absorbed  in  the  Power  which 
created  us." 

"The  Vicar  would  call  you  a  heretic." 

"Perhaps.  His  sermons  used  to  muddle  me  dread- 
fully." 

"Me  too,"  David  admitted. 

"Then  Father  began  to  explain  them.  He  blames 
the  churches  for  ignoring  evidences  of  Christianity 
which  stare  us  in  the  face  to-day.  He  says  that 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST  89 

Christ's  miracles  took  place,  because  similar  miracles 
are  now  performed." 

"Does  he  believe  in  the  Resurrection?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  he  believe  that  there  can  be  communication 
from  the  Other  Side?" 

"It  never  stops,  night  or  day." 

"Do  the  spirits  of  the  departed  come  back  ?" 

Mary  quoted  two  lines: 

"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

"Whose  lines  are  those?" 

"Milton's." 

"Of  course.  But  he  was  writing  of  angels,  not  of 
the  spirits  of  the  departed." 

"Father  says  that  Milton  must  have  believed  that 
the  dead  come  back,  or  rather  that  some  disembodied 
spirits  never  leave  the  earth.  In  Comus,  you  remember, 
he  speaks  of  shadowy  forms  in  churchyards,  Moth  to 
leave  the  body  that  it  loved.' ' 

David  remained  silent.  He  had  been  baptized  and 
confirmed  into  the  Church  of  England,  and  during 
thirteen  years  had  attended  some  thousands  of  services 
in  Sherborne  Abbey.  The  repetition  of  the  same 
prayers,  the  reiteration  of  the  same  doctrine,  and 
dogma  had  made  small  impression  on  his  mind. 
Fermor  was  no  theologian,  and  acutely  sensible 
of  his  inability  to  explain  the  doctrine,  let  us  say, 
of  Eternal  Punishment  to  an  intelligent  and  inquisitive 
boy.  When,  long  ago,  the  Vicar  had  said  in  his 


9o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

masterful  way,  "You  leave  David  to  me.  I'll  make 
a  Christian  of  him/'  Fermor  had  consented  willingly 
enough.  Pignerol  also,  partly  out  of  curiosity  and 
partly  out  of  respect,  had  allowed  to  the  Vicar  a  free 
hand.  It  was  his  part  to  teach  French  and  science  to 
David,  and  over  and  over  again,  observing  the  boy 
closely,  he  had  said  to  himself:  "I  shall  not  interfere. 
It  is  well  with  the  child.  That  jumps  to  the  eye.  It 
is  very  well  with  him." 

The  time  has  come  to  admit  that  it  was  not  altogether 
well  with  David,  in  the  spiritual  sense  of  the  word. 
The  essential  difference  between  him  and  Mary  as 
they  stood  together  in  the  moonlight,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  quite  openly  of  the  Life  beyond,  was  this: 
Mary  had  been  taught  from  a  child  to  search  for  spirit- 
ual truths,  and  to  sift,  intelligently,  the  evidence  con- 
cerning them.  Whereas  the  Vicar,  upon  a  notable 
occasion,  had  instructed  David  to  mistrust  a  too 
active  and  speculative  mind,  Pignerol,  acting  quite 
as  conscientiously,  had  recommended  his  little  daughter 
to  accept  nothing  which  her  reason  rejected. 

"The  things  which  you  cannot  understand,  my 
Marykins,  are  many.  Give  your  mind  to  what  it  does 
understand,  and,  day  by  day,  the  mysteries  shall  be 
revealed  to  you,  till  all  is  clear." 

Accordingly,  she  had  exercised  her  intelligence  upon 
ground  solid  beneath  her,  the  rock  of  her  own  tiny 
experience:  and  as  she  grew,  she  saw  farther  and  more 
clearly  to  an  ever-widening  horizon. 

It  had  been  otherwise  with  David. 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST  91 

After   a    long   pause,    David    spoke   in   a   troubled 
voice : 

"  Mary " 

"Yes?" 

"I    have    always    put  the    thought   of  death    from 


me/3 


"Ah!  I  have  wondered  why  you  have  avoided  it. 
But  it  came  out  in  your  miserere." 

"Yes,  it  had  to  —  as  a  protest." 

She  took  his  hand,  pressing  it  maternally.  In 
return,  he  gripped  her  so  fiercely  as  to  hurt  her. 

"  Let  us  face  it  together,"  she  whispered. 

"If  we  could,  but  one  must  go  first.     Mary,  I  - 
I  —  I  don't  share  your  father's  beliefs.     They  are  in 
the  air."     He  made  a  gesture. 

"They  are  certainly  not  of  the  earth,"  said  Mary. 

"I  hate  spiritualism  and  vapouring  about  reincarna- 
tion. It  seems  to  me  such  rubbish,  such  a  waste  of  time. 
Your  father,  for  instance,  has  chucked  away  fame  and 
fortune  in  the  pursuit  of  these  shadows." 

"He  never  cared  for  fame  and  fortune." 

"But  it  seems  to  me  he  ought  to  have  cared." 

"David!" 

"  I  think  your  father  one  of  the  very  best,  but  he  is 
unsound." 

"Gracious!  What  an  expression  to  use  about  him. 
He's  sound  to  the  core." 

"His  views  are  unsound." 

"Have  you  tested  them?" 

"Tested  them?" 


92  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Something  in  her  tone,  a  faintly  derisive  inflection, 
arrested  his  attention. 

"  Yes.  It  is  easy  to  test  a  man's  views,  if  he  expresses 
them  honestly." 

"How?  Do  you  suppose  I've  time  to  waste  over 
what  he  calls  psychic  phenomena?" 

"A  man's  views  are  not  tested  by  reading  what  he 
has  read.  His  meat  might  be  poison  to  you.  Father 
says  there  are  many  roads  which  lead  to  the  truth." 

"But  how  am  I  to  test  his  views  ?", 

"By  their  effect  upon  him.  Father's  views,  as  you 
call  them  —  I  prefer  the  word  thoughts  —  have  made 
him  tender,  kind,  brave,  and  unselfish." 

"But,  Mary,  Sebastian  Fermor  is  that  too,  and  his 
thoughts  are  not  the  same  as  the  Professor's." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?  He  has  not  travelled  to 
them  along  the  same  path;  but  I've  often  thought 
that  those  three  men,  Father,  Mr.  Fermor,  and  the 
Vicar,  although  they  may  differ  about  small  things, 
think  very  much  alike  about  great  things.  Each  has 
lived  and  loved  and  worked,  and  —  this  is  the  supreme 
test  —  not  one  of  them  is  afraid  to  die." 

The  moon  came  out,  resplendent,  flooding  the  moor- 
land with  light.  David  seized  Mary  and  gazed  into 
her  upturned  face,  as  if  searching  for  some  assurance 
that  she  would  not  leave  him. 

"Mary,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  had  your  faith  in 
the  unseen.  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  the  dark.  When 
I  was  a  small  boy,  I  had  to  have  a  night-light  in  my 
bedroom.  Perhaps  the  light  means  more  to  me  than 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST  93 

to  most  men.  My  music  comes  to  me  when  I  see  the 
light.  In  the  dark  there  is  silence.  If  the  light 
ever  failed  —  if  I  went  blind  -  —  I  know  that  my  music 
would  leave  me.  I  have  spoken  to  father  about  it,  and 
he  says  there  is  a  scientific  explanation  for  this.  The 
vibrations  which  produce  colour  produce  sound. 
Mary,  if  you  went,  it  would  be  very  dark." 

"If  I  left  you,"  she  said  steadily,  "it  would  be 
because  it  was  best  for  you  and  me." 

"Nobody  ever  loved  his  wife  as  I  love  you." 

"David,  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  but  love,  real 
love,  is  the  same,  the  one  thing  that  never  changes  and 
never  can  change.  What  flows  into  our  hearts  to-night 
has  flowed  into  millions  of  hearts  before  and  will  flow 
into  millions  again." 

"What  faith  you  have  I" 

"Surely  you  have  faith,  David  ?" 

"I  have  faith  in  myself." 

"  You  have  faith  in  prayer  ?" 

Again  he  held  her  closely  to  him,  so  that  she  divined 
his  fear  lest  what  he  was  about  to  say  might  drive  them 
apart. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  before.  I  — 
I  did  not  dare.  Mary,  prayer  seems  to  me  a  sort  of 
impertinence." 

"What?" 

The  exclamation  indicated  incredulity,  not  indigna- 
tion. 

"If  there  is  meaning  and  sincerity  in  the  words 
'Thy  Will  be  done/  how  can  we,  worms  that  we  are, 


94  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

dare  to  even  suggest  to  Omniscience  what  we  want  ? 
Mary,  don't  despise  me,  but  I  only  believe  in  prayer 
as  a  sort  of  thanksgiving." 

"That  is  something." 

"I  have  stuck  to  our  church,  because  it  seems  to  me 
better  than  nothing,  because  I  should  have  made  the 
Vicar  and  father  very  unhappy  if  I  had  left  it.  But 
its  teaching  leaves  me  cold  and  unconvinced." 

"You  must  talk  to  father." 

"  I  would  sooner  talk  to  you." 

She  hesitated,  humbly  sensible  of  her  own  limitations, 
and  slightly  confounded,  also,  because  she  and  David 
seemed  to  have  changed  places.  Heretofore,  in  the 
discussion  of  nearly  all  subjects,  David  had  uncon- 
sciously laid  down  the  law.  He  could  talk  well  upon 
what  kindled  his  imagination.  His  knowledge  of  art, 
exclusive  of  music,  was  remarkable  in  so  young  a  man, 
and  his  intimate  association  with  Fermor,  the  constant 
friction  between  a  healthy,  expanding  intelligence  and 
a  mind  finely  matured,  essentially  philosophical  and 
sympathetic,  had  produced  some  remarkable  results. 
David  was  summing  up  these  results  when  he  affirmed, 
modestly  enough,  that  he  had  faith  in  himself. 

Mary  began  slowly,  feeling  her  way. 

"  I  can't  think  of  you  as  a  worm.  And  you  don't 
think  yourself  a  worm  either." 

"No  — I  don't." 

"  I  am  to  try  to  explain  to  you  what  faith  and  prayer 
are  to  me,  and  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  put  into 
words  what  I  feel.  Well,"  she  laughed  softly,  "  I  have 


IN  THE  NEW  FOREST  95 

faith  that  the  words  will  come,  and  I  am  praying  hard 
that  they  may  be  the  right  words.  One  cannot  have  faith 
without  prayer,  and  prayer  without  faith  is  mumbling. 
If  you  have  faith  in  yourself,  David,  you  must  believe 
also  in  prayer,  for  prayer  is  the  desire  to  receive  some- 
thing without  us.  I  suppose  a  burglar  prays  quite  uncon- 
sciously when  he  is  breaking  into  a  house.  He  hopes 
that  the  night  will  be  dark,  the  dog  asleep,  and  the  loot 
handy.  Father  would  say  that  the  successful  criminal 
owes  his  success  to  faith  and  prayer,  faith  in  his  own 
strong  will,  and  the  desire  to  break  through  all  barriers." 

"And  who  answers  the  criminal's  prayer  ?" 

"The  powers  of  evil." 

"I  believe  in  evil  and  good:  that  is  about  as  far  as 
I  can  go." 

"If  that  is  a  conviction,  you  are  on  the  right  road. 
If  you  believe  also  that  the  choice  between  evil  and 
good  is  ours,  you  are  past  the  first  milestone." 

"Yes,  I  can  believe  that." 

"David,  your  faith  is  greater  than  you  think.  The 
people  with  whom  one  can  do  nothing  are  those  who 
seem  to  take  a  ridiculous  pride  in  boasting  that  they 
know  nothing.  If  you  believe  in  good,  how  are  you  to 
attract  that  good  to  yourself?  If  you  believe  in  evil, 
how  are  you  to  repel  that  evil  ?  The  only  answer  is  — 
by  faith  and  prayer.  You  say  that  prayer  is  an  imper- 
tinence. Is  a  child  impertinent  when  it  prays  that 
Santa  Claus  may  fill  its  stocking  ?  Father  uses  only 
one  form  of  prayer:  he  asks  that  power  may  be  bestowed 
upon  him  to  use  for  the  benefit  of  others.  Just  now  you 


96  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

spoke  of  fame  and  fortune.  I  believe  firmly  that  these 
would  have  come  to  him,  had  he  prayed  for  them." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  he  despises  fame  and  money 
and  everything  which  these  include  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  But  he  is  satisfied  that  they  are  not 
for  him.  He  believes  that  you  will  become  famous, 
David." 

"Does  he,  really  and   truly?" 

"I  have  heard  him  say  so,  emphatically." 

"And  you,  Mary,  do  you  believe  in  me,  too?" 

"But,  of  course." 

"You  speak  so,  so  —  unenthusiastically.  Surely 
you  want  me  to  arrive,  to  make  an  enduring  mark  ?" 

"To  make  an  enduring  mark  —  yes." 

"You  say  that  so  oddly." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  hurting  you.  And  yet,  I  must  be 
honest,  for  both  our  sakes.  The  greatest  success  the 
world  could  give  to  you  would  be  nothing  to  me  unless 
you  dedicated  it  to  the  glory  of  God." 

As  she  spoke  the  darkness  once  more  overshadowed 
them,  and  she  was  thrillingly  conscious  that  her  husband 
was  not  quite  so  near  to  her.  The  irrevocable  word, 
the  verdict  above  appeal,  which  had  come  flaming  from 
her  soul,  lay  between  them,  like  Sigurd's  sword.  She 
heard  him  sigh,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she 
prayed  that  his  heart  might  be  opened,  and  that 
Heaven's  healing  dew  might  fall  upon  it.  She  had 
hardly  finished,  when  he  said  sorrowfully:  "Mary, 
pray  that  your  faith  may  be  given  to  me,  and  —  swear 
this " 


IN  THE   NEW  FOREST  97 

His  voice  became  vehement  and  insistent. 

"What  am  I  to  swear?" 

"You  believe  that  there  is  communication  between 
the  living  and  the  dead  ?" 

"Father  believes  it.  He  says  that  the  evidence  he 
has  sifted  is  mostly  tainted  by  fraud  and  inaccuracy, 
but  enough  that  is  genuine  remains  to  prove  it  incon- 
testably  to  him/' 

"And  you?" 

"David,  I  don't  know.     That  is  still  mystery." 

"  I  want  you  to  pledge  yourself  to  come  back  at  once, 
if  you  go  first.  If  I  have  the  most  shadowy  glimpse 
of  you,  I  shall  believe  in  a  future  life.  And  I  pledge 
myself  to  come  to  you,  if  I  am  taken." 

She  answered  after  a  pause: 

"  I  will  come  back,  if  I  can.     I  swear  that." 

"I  swear  the  same." 

Then  he  kissed  her,  straining  her  to  him  in  a  passion 
of  revolt  against  the  law  which  binds  husband  and 
wife  together  with  the  knowledge,  and  therefore  with 
the  intention,  of  rending  them  asunder. 


CHAPTER  V 
SOLOMON'S  GARDEN 

DURING  the  year  that  followed,  the  petty  cares 
and  worries  which  attack  young  married 
people  with  limited  incomes  did  not  spare 
David  and  Mary.  David  found  the  choir  rebellious 
because  so  young  a  man  had  been  set  in  authority 
over  it.  The  Vicar  was  failing  in  health,  and  the 
withdrawal  of  his  vigorous  influence  produced  an 
atmosphere  of  unrest  and  confusion.  Moreover, 
between  Mary  and  her  husband  were  tiny  tempera- 
mental differences  which  time  alone  can  adjust.  David 
told  himself  now  and  again  that  Mary  hardly  seemed 
to  realize  the  importance  of  his  music,  and  Mary, 
for  her  part,  wished  that  dear  David  would  not  buy 
large  legs  of  mutton  when  he  was  enjoined  to  buy 
small  ones.  But  the  misunderstandings  which  did 
arise  always  vanished  beneath  kisses  and  laughter. 

By  the  luck  of  things  a  cottage  in  Sherborne,  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  Abbey,  happened  to  be  vacant. 
It  stood  in  its  own  garden,  a  long,  low,  narrow,  two- 
storied  building,  built  of  stone  and  roofed  with  stone 
tiles  encrusted  by  soft  mosses  and  lichens.  The  front 
was  covered  with  ivy  and  ampelopsis,  out  of  which, 
brilliantly  white,  gleamed  a  double  row  of  square, 
mullioned  windows.  Upon  each  side  of  the  door 

98 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  99 

were  big  green  tubs  filled  with  white  daisies,  and  the 
knocker  of  the  door  was  a  delicately-modelled  woman's 
hand  emerging  from  a  frilled  cuff.  Above  the  door 
was  a  rather  curious  baldachin  of  carved  wood,  orna- 
mental rather  than  useful.  Small  as  the  house  was, 
it  boasted  a  gravel  sweep,  and  flanking  this  stretched 
a  path  of  broad  gray  flag-stones  worn  by  the  passage 
of  innumerable  feet.  The  front  garden  was  semi- 
circular in  shape,  and  bounded  by  a  low  fence,  over 
which  one  could  see  a  pretty  lawn,  an  ancient  yew 
tree,  and  some  pollarded  limes.  Behind  the  house, 
quite  out  of  sight,  was  another  tiny  garden,  less  than 
half  an  acre  of  ground,  bounded  on  three  sides  by  a 
crumbling  wall  with  a  heavy  coping.  Under  the  wall, 
and  running  along  two  sides  of  it,  trickled  a  rivulet 
of  water  down  the  middle  of  a  ditch  choked  by  weeds 
and  nettles.  When  Mary  saw  this  ditch,  she  clapped 
her  hands. 

"What  a  drain!"  said  David,  nose  in  air. 

"David,  I  shall  make  this  our  sanctuary." 

"Good  Heavens!    How?" 

"  You'll  see,  if  you  live  for  one  more  year." 

"You  can  do  nothing  with  such  a  beastly  place." 

"Oh!  can't  I?" 

From  the  first  it  had  been  understood  that  Fermor 
would  not  join  them.  They  saw  him  daily;  he  dined 
once  a  week  with  them;  they  dined  as  often,  or  oftener, 
with  him. 

Before  six  months  had  passed  Mary  confessed  to 
Fermor  that  a  genius  might,  on  occasions,  be  a  nuisance. 


ioo  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

David  would  remain  in  his  room,  skipping  luncheon, 
and  emerge  pale  and  anxious,  unstrung  by  toil  and 
fasting.  Twice  he  worked  the  whole  night. 

"It's  so  silly  of  him,"  said  Mary  to  Fermor. 

"My  dear,"  he  patted  her  hand,  "that  is  how 
Beethoven  produced  the  great  Sonata  in  B  flat,  the 
' drangvollen  Umstanden'  which  we  practical  folk 
cannot  understand." 

"Did  you  go  on  like  this  ?" 

"No."  Then  he  added  with  a  twist  of  the  lip, 
"I  never  wrote  a  great  sonata  in  B  flat." 

One  morning  David  announced  that  he  had  destroyed 
his  score. 

Even  Fermor,  the  purist,  the  indefatigable  refiner 
and  reducer,  raised  his  voice  in  protest.  Mary  stamped 
her  foot. 

"It  was  no  good,"  said  David  savagely.  "I  shall 
begin  again  upon  different  lines." 

"On  a  still  larger  scale?" 

Irony  lurked  beneath  her  soft  voice,  for  David  had 
written  his  oratorio  in  full  score,  for  an  immense 
orchestra  and  organ.  He  laughed  at  her  rueful  face. 

"This  time  we'll  call  it  a  cantata." 

"I've  a  name  for  it:   'Kindly  Light.'" 

"Not  bad,  but  why?" 

She  made  a  tiny  grimace.  "Because  it  leads  you 
on  and  on  and  away  from  me." 

"  Mary  —  you're  joking.  Nothing  could  lead  me 
away  from  you." 

She  laughed,  not  quite  whole-heartedly,  and,  next 


SOLOMON'S  GARDEN  101 

day,  when  David  found  himself  alone  with  Fermor, 
he  said,  wonderingly:  "Is  is  possible  that  Mary 
grudges  the  time  I  spend  at  my  music?" 

"She'd  be  inhuman  if  she  didn't." 

"Father,  once  or  twice  when  I've  been  late  for 
dinner,  she's  been  rather  short  with  me." 

"Serve  you  right." 

"But  it's  my  job." 

"And  a  poor  job  too,  my  boy,  if  it  keeps  that  little 
dear  waiting  for  dinner,  feeling  her  heart  grow  as  cold 
as  the  dishes  she  has  prepared  for  you." 

"  I  must  be  more  punctual,  but  Mary  —  cross ! 
It's  unthinkable." 

"There  may  be  a  physical  reason." 

"Eh?     What?" 

"The  usual  one." 

"Heavens!     But  she'd  have  told  me.     It  can't  be." 

"She'd  say  nothing,  if  she  thought  it  would  distract 
you  from  your  work." 

"  By  Jove  1  I  believe  you're  right.  What  a  thought- 
less beast  I've  been." 

He  rushed  tempestuously  out  of  the  room.  Fermor, 
looking  out  of  his  window,  could  see  him  tearing 
through  the  Abbey  Close.  He  smiled  and  nodded 
to  himself. 

Meantime,  David  arrived  so  red  and  breathless 
that  Mary,  not  expecting  him  for  several  hours,  experi- 
enced rather  a  shock. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing.     Except  that  I'm  a  stupid  ass.     I  rushed 


102  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

down  to  tell  you  so.  I'm  going  to  turn  up  punctually 
at  meals  for  the  future." 

"David,  you  didn't  race  here  to  tell  me  that." 

"Also  I  want  to  ask  a  tremendous  question." 

Then,  as  he  kissed  her  tenderly,  she  began  to 
divine  the  nature  of  his  question,  and  blushed.  He 
whispered  it  into  her  ear,  and  she  nodded,  hiding  her 
face  upon  his  shoulder.  Fermor  had  guessed  rightly. 

"Mary,  you   didn't  think  I   put  my  work   first?" 

"No,  but  I  wanted  you  to  give  your  whole  mind  to 
it,  and  if  I  was  cross  about  your  being  late  for  dinner, 
it  was  for  much  the  same  reason.  You  ought  to  keep 
yourself  as  fit  as  possible." 

"I'm  going  to  look  after  you  and  you'll  look  after 
me,  and  we'll  present  the  world  with  —  masterpieces." 

After  this,  as  if  to  make  amends  for  any  seeming 
neglect,  he  devoted  himself  to  her.  When  Fermor 
said,  "How  is  the  cantata  getting  on?"  he  replied 
briskly,  "Hang  the  cantata!  Do  you  think  Mary 
would  be  the  better  for  a  change  of  air  ?" 

"No;  she  has  had  a  change  of  air.  She  looks 
blooming." 

"She  does  too  much,  father." 

"Is  that  why  you  do  too  little?  Get  back  to  work 
and  don't  fuss." 

September  was  drawing  to  a  close,  when  the  Vicar 
died.  About  a  week  before  the  end,  he  sent  for  David. 
The  once  strong  robust  man  looked  curiously  thin 
and  frail,  as  he  sat  huddled  up  in  his  armchair,  but 
the  eyes  had  lost  little  of  their  fire  ana  vitality. 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  103 

"David/*  he  said  quietly,  "I  have  something  on 
my  mind.  When  your  dear  father  adopted  you,  I 
told  him  that  I  would  make  a  Christian  of  you. 
To-day,  looking  back  with  a  clearer  vision  than  I 
used  to  have,  I  know  that  vicars  do  not  make  Chris- 
tians. It  was  a  presumptuous  thing  to  say.  And  I 
fear  me  that  on  more  than  one  occasion  I  evaded  ques- 
tions you  asked  me,  or  answered  them  peremptorily. 
Forgive  me,  my  boy!" 

"Sir,  if  I  am  not  the  Christian  you  would  have  me 
to  be,  it's  my  own  fault." 

The  Vicar  pressed  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,   dear  David,  and  God  bless  you!" 

In  February  Mary's  child  was  born,  a  strong,  healthy 
girl,  curiously  like  Mary  from  the  first.  David  insisted 
that  she  should  be  christened  Mary,  and  then  and 
thereafter  he  spoke  of  her  as  the  Marionette,  and  whim- 
sically chose  to  regard  her  as  the  medium  for  advice 
offered  to  a  young  and  too  giddy  mother. 

"Marionette,"  he  would  say,  staring  into  the  baby's 
eyes,  "I  wish  you  would  speak  seriously  to  Mary. 
I  caught  her  rolling  the  lawn  this  afternoon,"  or  "  Mari- 
onette, please  tell  Mary  that  I'm  sorry  I  forgot  to  order 
the  fish,"  or,  "Marionette,  you  will  be  delighted  to 
hear  that  your  illustrious  grandfather,  Professor 
Pignerol,  honours  us  with  his  company  at  dinner 
to-morrow  night." 

His  interest  in  the  baby  astonished  Mary.  Oddly 
enough,  before  the  child's  birth,  when  she  was  fash- 


io4  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ioning  tiny  garments  and  weaving  into  every  stitch 
tender  thoughts  of  motherhood,  she  never  once  visual- 
ized David  as  father.  Indeed,  she  had  come  to  regard 
him  as  a  child,  the  eternal  youth,  importunate  in  his 
demand  for  the  care  and  sympathy  which  she  lavished 
upon  him  so  generously.  Once  she  spoke  of  this. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  you  are  baby's  father/' 

David  laughed. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Marionette?  This  woman 
whom  we  are  both  so  awfully  afraid  of,  is  getting  her 
knife  into  me.  She  hints,  the  sly  creature,  that  I'm 
not  fit  to  be  a  father.  And,  of  course,  she's  right. 
Marionette,  she  is  always  exasperatingly  right.  We're 
only  pals,  you  and  I.  Remember  that,  my  young 
chick." 

Fermor  alone  knew  that  David's  joyous  mood  was 
the  natural  reaction  after  a  season  of  terrible  anxiety 
cunningly  hidden  from  Mary.  David  had  not  been 
able  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  her  words  spoken  at 
the  end  of  the  honeymoon:  "I  shall  go  first,  and  I 
shall  go  soon."  The  presentiment  festered  that  she 
would  go  when  the  baby  came.  And  when  it  did 
come,  Fermor,  who  stayed  with  David  during  one 
interminable  night,  whispered  to  Pignerol:  "He 
suffered  her  pangs.  He  was  beside  himself  with 
pain." 

Before  the  baby  was  a  year  old,  another  season  of 
storm  and  stress  set  in.  David  was  obliged  to  give 
music  lessons  to  eke  out  an  income  too  small  for  a 
family  of  three.  What  time  was  left  he  devoted  to 


SOLOMON'S  GARDEN  105 

the  cantata,  now  nearly  finished,  but,  as  a  whole, 
unsatisfactory.  It  contained  passages  of  great  beauty, 
but  Fermor  knew  that  it  was  uneven  and  weak  in 
design.  The  tone-colouring  and  certain  remarkable 
effects  of  light  and  shade  could  not  conceal  an  inherent 
lack  of  strength  and  solidity.  Comparing  —  as  Fermor 
did  —  David's  work  with  the  Kirchen-cantaten  of 
Bach,  it  was  impossible  to  overlook  the  fundamental 
difference  between  the  two  composers.  Also,  the 
labour  involved  in  its  full  orchestration  was  prodigious. 
Popular  composers,  to-day,  allow  others  to  orches- 
trate their  scores:  an  expensive  business.  Neither 
Fermor  nor  David  had  a  penny  to  spare. 

Accordingly,  we  behold  David  overworking  himself 
and  neglecting  proper  exercise  of  the  body,  which 
revenged  itself  by  declaring  war  on  the  mind,  opening 
a  tedious  campaign  with  a  sharp  attack  of  indigestion. 
Hitherto  David  had  enjoyed  high  health,  an  immunity 
from  aches  and  pains  which  expressed  itself  in  the 
texture  of  his  skin,  in  the  radiant  careless  glance  of 
his  blue  eyes.  Seeing  him  pale  and  thin,  the  Professor 
said: 

"My  son,  you  are  foolish.  Work  is  the  salt  of 
life  and  justifies  existence,  but  overwork  is  like  cayenne 
pepper.  It  corrodes  the  delicate  tissues,  and  ulti- 
mately destroys  them.  Be  reasonable !  You  are  young 
and  strong,  you  have  an  adorable  wife  and  child. 
Fortune  has  come  to  you  with  both  hands  full.  Write 
a  Jubilate,  and,  inasmuch  as  you  are  still  one  of  the 
green  things  of  the  earth,  praise  the  Lord!" 


106  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"I  am  working  for  your  daughter." 

"Pouf-f-f!"  The  Professor  snapped  his  strong 
fingers.  "Your  Marykins  and  your  Marionette  are 
as  wise  as  you  are  unwise.  They  are  perfectly  happy 
with  simple  things.  The  only  cloud  in  their  sky  is 
the  cloud  which  they  perceive  in  your  eyes."  Then 
be  quoted  the  following  quatrain: 

"  The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet 
And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest." 

An  additional  cause  of  annoyance  was  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  new  vicar.  Why  vicar  and  organist 
instinctively  disliked  each  other  it  is  impossible  to 
explain.  Doctors  of  the  Church  ought  to  rise  superior 
to  petty  failings,  but  Miss  Rachel  Callow  maintained 
that  the  new  vicar  was  jealous  of  David  Archdale, 
and  perhaps  he  was. 

We  must  pass  quickly  over  months  of  anxiety  and 
heartburnings:  the  trials  and  tribulations  so  common 
to  young  married  people,  so  petty  as  almost  to  elude 
description,  and  yet  in  their  cumulative  effect  so  disas- 
trous to  peace  and  happiness.  The  day  came  when 
David  realized  with  poignant  self-reproach  that  he 
alone  had  been  responsible  for  a  domestic  malaise 
which  a  little  common  sense  would  have  put  to  flight. 
Overwork  and  the  sense  that  he  was  not  doing  justice 
to  himself,  that  his  music,  when  laboriously  written 
down,  fell  far  short  of  what  he  had  conceived  it  to  be, 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  107 

made  him  irritable  and  nervous.  The  baby  was  cutting 
her  big  teeth  and  very  fretful  at  night;  Mary,  strug- 
gling valiantly  against  conditions  of  which  she  had 
no  experience  whatever,  became  oppressed  with  the 
fear  that  David  would  break  down.  If  he  did,  if  he 
lost  his  position  as  organist,  their  condition  would  be 
lamentable.  Nevertheless,  David  always  found  a 
smile  upon  her  face  when  he  came  home,  and  she  swore 
that  she  would  keep  on  smiling  till  her  heavens  fell. 

David  misinterpreted  these  pathetic  smiles;  and 
Mary,  admittedly,  may  have  made  a  blunder  in  avoid- 
ing reference  to  his  work.  She  perceived  that  such 
mention  excited  him  and  ended  in  a  sleepless  night. 
David,  poor  fellow,  brought  himself  to  believe  that  she 
was  indifferent  to  his  music,  that  it  bored  her ! 

We  must  introduce  into  this  gloomy  picture  a  shaft 
or  two  of  light.  There  were  delightful  moments, 
when  the  fountain  seemed  to  be  unsealed,  when  delicious 
harmonies  flowed  into  David's  head,  and  were  hastily 
transcribed.  He  then  became  again  the  joyous  youth, 
the  delightful  companion,  the  perfect  husband. 

"I  know  it's  fine,"  he  would  say.  "This  will 
astonish  that  fat  Lorimer,  confound  him!" 

And  Mary  would  reply:  "Yes,  yes,  it's  perfectly 
splendid." 

They  had  been  married  more  than  three  years, 
when  Mary  was  constrained  to  admit  to  herself  that 
nothing  short  of  a  worldly  success  would  restore  to 
her  the  David  of  the  honeymoon,  who  had  seemed  the 
best  husband  in  the  world.  She  listened,  not  without 


108  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

a  pang  of  jealousy,  to  his  monologues  with  the  baby. 
He  talked  to  the  child  with   unmistakable  candour. 

"Marionette,  we  are  having  hard  times.  We  are 
both  cutting  teeth,  but  we'll  have  such  larks  presently. 
And  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  hear  my  songs  sung 
by  the  greatest  singers  in  the  world.  And  I  shall 
present  to  you  Madame  Albani  and  Madame  Patti, 
and  I  shall  say:  'Here  is  my  particular  pal,  who 
listened  patiently  to  me  when  I  was  poor  and 
unknown/  3 

Mary  reflected:  "He  thinks  that  I  do  not  listen 
patiently/' 

After  this,  she  began  to  pray  that  the  success  he 
craved  would  be  his.  And  so  praying,  she  knew 
that  she  was  unfaithful  to  her  principles,  and  cutting 
adrift  from  her  father's  teaching,  for  the  success  which 
David  coveted  was  the  acclaim  of  the  multitude.  The 
Professor  had  embodied  this  in  an  epigram:  "The 
applause  of  the  few  ascends  to  Heaven,  the  applause  of 
the  many  rings  loudest  in  Hell." 

Fermor  was  a  great  comfort  to  her.  His  reserve, 
his  discretion,  his  delicacy  in  not  asking  questions, 
and  his  quiet  humour  lightened  the  dark  moments. 
Mary  had  nicknamed  him  "The  Looker-on."  He  saw 
all  of  the  game,  but  never  interfered.  His  faith  in 
David  remained  constant. 

" My  dear,"  he  would  say  serenely.     "I  —  even  I  - 
have  been  through  this  mill.     It  ground  me  out  small, 
it  may  grind  out  David  big.     We  cannot  alter  him 
to  fit  our  rule-of-thumb." 


SOLOMON'S  GARDEN  109 

"We  have  not  even  tried  to  alter  David;  he  has 
altered  himself.  The  wise  Looker-on  must  have  seen 
that  it  is  a  big  worldly  success  which  his  son  wants." 

"It  is  so  natural." 

But  Mary  shook  her  head. 

"Not  natural  in  your  son." 

"But  he  is  not  really  mine.  The  fight  between 
heredity  and  environment,  which  the  Vicar  predicted, 
is  now  beginning." 

"Beginning?" 

Fermor  nodded,  watching  the  smoke  from  his  pipe 
dissolve  in  the  air.  So  his  ambitions  had  dissolved 
leaving  the  latter  half  of  life  clear.  Mary  continued: 

"When  we  first  married,  he  told  me  that  if  he  could 
please  you  he  was  satisfied  and  happy.  Now  he  wants 
to  please  that  odious  Mr.  Lorimer." 

"Lorimer  is  an  excellent  fellow.  Cheer  up,  Mary! 
All  will  be  well." 

Mary  kissed  him  and  laughed. 

"I've  never  let  myself  go  to  anybody  except  you, 
my  dear  Looker-on." 

"Well,  well,  come  and  explode  on  my  premises 
whenever  you  like." 

After  interminable  delays  and  innumerable  altera- 
tions, the  cantata  was  finished.  Immediately,  David 
seemed  to  recover  his  health  and  high  spirits.  Con- 
vinced that  Lorimer  would  undertake  its  production, 
he  bought  a  new  piano  without  paying  for  it.  He 
was  almost  angry  when  Mary  hinted  deprecatingly 
that  nothing  was  certain  on  this  planet. 


no  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Dearest,  ycu  have  no  faith  in  me." 

"I  have  —  I  have,  indeed,  the  very  greatest  faith." 

"I  should  really  believe  that,  if  you  told  me  that 
you  had  prayed  for  my  triumph." 

"I  have." 

"From  the  bottom  of  your  heart  ?" 

"From  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  with  all  my  mind 
and  soul  and  strength." 

"What  a  blessed  little  woman!  I've  been  thinking 
of  what  we  shall  do.  I  shall  take  an  unholy  joy  in  telling 
the  Vicar  to  find  another  organist.  We  must  have  a 
nurse,  and  a  pony  cart,  and,  perhaps,  a  parlour-maid." 

"You  are  travelling  at  a  prodigious  pace." 

"The  Marionette  shall  own  a  gorgeous  pram,  and 
a  pelisse  lined  with  the  best  white  satin." 

"These  are  castles  in  Spain." 

"In  France,  only  just  across  the  Channel.  If  we 
had  a  larger  house,  we  could  entertain  a  little." 

"Gracious!    You  make  me  dizzy." 

And  then  the  thunderbolt  fell,  crushing  the  unhappy 
man  into  a  quagmire  of  misery  and  disappointment. 
Lorimer  wrote  to  say  that  he  had  submitted  the  score 
to  half  a  dozen  of  the  ablest  musicians  in  the  kingdom. 
They  were  unanimous  in  regard  to  its  great  merit, 
awarded  unqualified  praise  to  David's  contrapuntal 
skill  and  his  astonishing  mastery  (for  so  young  a  man) 
over  the  technical  difficulties;  but,  with  one  exception, 
they  agreed  that  the  cost  of  production  would  be 
enormous  and  prohibitive.  Lorimer  offered  to  pub- 
lish separately  some  of  the  solos. 


SOLOMON'S  GARDEN  in 

"Never,"  said  David,  in  grim  despair,  "never!" 

Fermor  said  grimly:  "The  first  fruits  of  genius 
often  fall  from  the  tree.  Try  again !" 

"I  can't!"   said  David. 

Two  days  of  dreadful  silence  followed.  Mary  gazed 
at  him,  unable  to  speak,  fearing  to  say  too  much  or  too 
little.  Upon  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she  could 
stand  the  suspense  no  longer. 

"David,"  she  said,  entreatingly,  "say  something  — 
anything.  Your  silence  is  breaking  my  heart." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  arouse  him.  He  came  to  her, 
took  her  head  between  his  hands,  and  said  brokenly: 

"  My  God !  That  I  should  have  dared  to  marry  you !" 

"Dared?"   she  gasped. 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  terrifying  detachment,  while 
the  sweat  broke  upon  his  forehead. 

"I  told  you  I  had  faith  in  myself.  It's  gone,  gone! 
Do  you  think  I  should  have  asked  you  to  marry  me  to 
remain  the  wife  of  a  tu'penny-ha'  penny  organist?" 

"Dear,  I  asked  for  nothing  better.  I  am  content. 
We  love  each  other.  Nothing  else  matters." 

He  kissed  her  and  burst  into  tears,  terrible  grinding 
sobs  which  shook  them  both.  She  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  his  face  buried  in  her  lap. 
While  the  paroxysm  lasted  she  prayed  with  a  fervour 
and  faith  so  intense  as  almost  to  transcend  conscious- 
ness that  she  might  be  able  to  comfort  him  and  wean 
his  mind  from  the  contemplation  of  his  wounds.  And, 
as  she  prayed,  her  fingers  smoothed  his  hair  with  a 
caressing  touch. 


ii2  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

She  remembered  afterward  that  her  faith  had  been 
supreme  at  this  crisis  in  their  lives;  she  had  never 
doubted  that  her  prayer  would  be  answered.  The 
sobs  ceased,  the  convulsed  limbs  grew  still.  Presently 
he  lifted  his  head  and  met  her  tender  glance. 

"My  wife,"  he  whispered.  "Can  you  ever  forgive 
me?" 

After  this,  during  eighteen  months,  David  and  Mary 
were  as  near  to  perfect  happiness  as  it  is  given  to  mortals 
to  be.  David  laid  aside  worldly  ambition,  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  choir,  his  pupils,  his  family,  and  his 
garden. 

The  plot  of  ground  behind  the  house  had  become 
Mary's  joy  and  delight.  She  had  collected  a  number 
of  broken  paving-stones  with  which  she  made  a  winding 
path  along  the  ditch.  In  the  ditch,  cleared  of  nettles 
and  weeds,  she  had  placed  rocks;  and  about  these 
were  planted  saxifrages  and  ferns.  Upon  each  side 
of  the  paving-stones  grew  grass  not  clipped  too  short, 
in  which  bloomed  the  cousins  of  the  iris  and  narcissus 
in  Pignerol's  wilderness.  Masses  of  forget-me-nots, 
with  tulips  rising  out  of  them,  fringed  the  rivulet. 
Upon  the  side  of  the  path  opposite  the  ditch  David 
had  thrown  up  a  small  embankment.  Here,  acan- 
thus spread  its  beautiful  spinous  leaves;  tall  holly- 
hocks looked  down  upon  poppies  and  primulas; 
Canterbury  bells  quivered  in  the  midsummer  breeze; 
feathery  plumes  of  spirea  illumined  the  blue  of  lark- 
spur and  cornflower.  And  within  this  enchanted 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  113 

border  was  the  holy  of  holies.  Discovering  that  the 
aged  fruit  trees  were  past  bearing,  Mary  turned  them 
into  a  natural  trellis  for  all  beautiful  vagabonds.  The 
sanctuary  was  a  bower  of  roses  in  which  Mary  sat 
planning  new  improvements. 

At  first,  David  had  taken  but  little  interest  in  this 
tiny  pleasaunce,  but  insensibly  he  became  infected  with 
Mary's  enthusiasm.  She  talked  of  it,  using  her  father's 
phrases,  as  a  tabernacle.  David  laughed,  but  he 
promised  to  leave  care  without  the  garden. 

"Cares,"  said  Mary,  "are  tares.  I  really  believe 
that  if  we  worried  and  squabbled,  the  roses  wouldn't 
smell  as  sweet,  and  the  lavender  would  refuse  to 
grow." 

She  lavished  the  same  love  upon  the  humblest  herbs 
as  she  gave  to  the  stately  lilies,  engrossed  with  the 
difficulties  of  nourishing  feeble  and  sickly  plants. 
When  they  became  strong  and  vigorous  she  gloated, 
maintaining  that  everything  and  everybody  was 
intended  to  grow  to  fullest  stature. 

Her  absorbing  interest  in  things  of  simple  and 
costless  pleasure  communicated  itself  to  David.  The 
doctor,  at  the  time  of  David's  physical  breakdown, 
had  prescribed  two  hours'  work  a  day  with  a  spade 
or  hoe.  David  played  Muscle  to  Mary's  Mind. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  his  mighty  inspiration 
descended  upon  him. 

For  a  year  he  had  never  spoken  of  his  cantata,  nor 
had  he  undertaken  any  original  composition.  Fermor 
made  no  protest,  realizing  that  the  great  masterpiece 


n4  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

would  come  in  the  fulness  of  time,  and  that  a  period 
of  incubation  was  inevitable  after  the  drangvollen 
umstanden  which  had  culminated  in  the  failure  of 
the  cantata. 

David  and  Mary  were  alone  in  the  garden.  Pignerol, 
however,  had  just  left  behind  some  of  the  Pignerol 
philosophy. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  had  said,  "that  you  never  speak 
of  your  flowers  by  their  jaw-breaking  Latin  names. 
Name  of  a  pipe !  Isn't  Love  In  Idleness  good  enough  ? 
And  Heartsease,  and  Sweet  William  —  God  bless 
him  —  and  Canterbury  bells,  and  that  adorable  rose 
which  does  so  well  with  me,  Felicite  perpetuelle?  To 
me,  mes  enfants,  these  dear  familiar  names  are  not 
the  least  of  a  garden's  charms,  because  they  scent  the 
imagination  —  is  it  not  so  ?" 

And  Mary  had  laughed,  saying:  "Snapdragon 
will  never  be  called  antirrhinum  in  this  garden."  And 
then  Pignerol  had  added  with  solemnity:  "You  are  wise 
children.  You  have  discovered  the  great  secret  of  the 
flowers;  you  are  rinding  the  common  daylight  sweet." 

When  he  had  gone,  David  sat  down,  letting  his  eyes 
wander  over  this  tiny  domain  which  enshrined  so 
many  delightful  hours;  every  flower  seemed  to  scent, 
as  Pignerol  put  it,  his  imagination.  Mary  sat  beside 
him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his.  At  her  touch,  he 
seemed  to  hear  a  strain  of  music,  the  "heavenly  note," 
of  which  Fermor  and  he  had  so  often  talked.  And 
then,  excitedly,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed: 

"  Mary  —  it  has  come !" 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  115 

"What,  David  ?" 

"My  wonderful  idea.  I  knew  it  would  come.  I 
wrote  the  cantata  in  the  wrong  spirit.  But  this," 
he  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  "this  is  the  real  thing. 
It's  exactly  right.  I  know  it,  I  know  it!" 

Mary  said  demurely:  "I  hope  what  you  know 
will  declare  itself  in  the  fulness  of  time." 

David  slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  kissed 
her.  Then  he  fetched  the  Marionette,  who  was  roll- 
ing about  on  the  tiny  lawn,  where  Mary  had  sowed 
some  sweet-smelling  herbs  amongst  the  grasses.  The 
child  smelt  of  thyme  and  chamomile  as  her  father 
picked  her  up. 

"Now,"  said  David  very  solemnly,  "I  am  going  to 
tell  you  two  angels  that  the  privilege  of  your  society 
has  not  after  all  been  wasted  on  me.  I  am  going  to 
write  a  soul-awakening  oratorio,  and  I  shall  call  it 
'Solomon's  Garden/  It  is  to  be  the  garden  of  love  and 
wisdom.  And  every  blessed  flower  and  herb  shall 
turn  its  sweetness  into  music  for  me.  There!" 

He  laughed  triumphantly.  The  child  laughed  too, 
and  clapped  her  hands.  Mary  said  softly:  "Awake, 

0  north  wind;    and   come,   thou   south;    blow  upon 
my  garden,   that  the   spices   thereof  may  flow  out." 

"Where  is  that  from  ?"  asked  David. 

"From  the  'Song  of  Solomon'." 

"That    shall    be    the    opening    recitative.     Mary, 

1  wrote  the  cantata  myself,  but  we  shall  do  this  together. 
You  shall  write  the  words." 

He  could  talk  of  nothing  else;    and  next  day  the 


ii6  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

work  was  begun.  Fermor  was  almost  as  excited  as 
David.  Love,  not  ambition,  had  at  last  inspired  the 
boy  whom  he  had  trained  to  be  satisfied  with  nothing 
except  the  best.  He  too  quoted  the  Canticles: 
"Many  waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither  can  the 
floods  drown  it." 

Afterward,  David  often  wondered  why  this  par- 
ticular work  came  so  easily  to  him,  almost  without 
effort  on  his  part.  He  told  Mary  that  he  was  inspired; 
and  Pignerol's  daughter  had  no  difficulty  in  believing 
this  to  be  so.  He  worked  in  the  garden,  and  then 
would  rush  excitedly  to  the  piano,  calling  upon  Mary 
and  the  Marionette  to  follow.  Then  he  would  play 
and  hum  his  themes,  punctuating  them  with  incessant 
questions  addressed  to  the  mother  and  child.  If  he 
suffered,  it  was  from  a  too  copious  flow  of  ideas.  The 
perplexity  of  right  selection  made  him  frown,  but 
invariably  the  final  decision  was  left  to  the  sprites 
who  work  when  mortals  sleep.  These  sprites  became 
very  familiar  spirits  indeed  to  David  and  Mary,  who 
called  them  by  the  names  of  birds  and  flowers;  as  a 
rule,  the  nightingale  was  allowed  the  last  word. 

Fermor  told  himself  twenty  times  a  day  that  all  was 
well.  He,  too,  entered  into  this  partnership  with  a 
zest  and  excitement  which  —  so  Pignerol  said  —  made 
him  look  ten  years  younger.  And  he  helped  inde- 
fatigably  with  the  orchestration  and  the  setting  of  the 
words  of  the  Canticles  to  music.  His  enormous 
experience  and  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  great 
anthems  were  invaluable  to  David.  But  often  he 


SOLOMON'S   GARDEN  117 

trembled  when  he  tried  to  compute  what  the  cost  of 
production  would  be.  The  ever-sanguine  David 
prattled  of  the  Albert  Hall  and  all  the  stars,  who  were 
to  sing  gloriously  together.  And  yet  Fermor  dared 
not  attempt  to  clip  the  wings  of  an  aspiration  which 
he  feared  might  be  soaring  too  high.  Genius,  he 
reflected,  if  it  be  of  the  sublimest  order,  ought  to 
manifest  itself  in  the  loftiest  endeavour.  Neverthe- 
less, magnificently  as  the  oratorio  was  conceived  and 
treated,  perhaps  its  most  amazing  characteristic  was 
simplicity.  Incomparably  the  finest  solo  was  the  one 
which  began  "Come,  my  beloved,  let  us  go  forth  into 
the  field;  let  us  lodge  in  the  villages."  In  a  word, 
the  inner  meaning  of  the  music  illustrated  the  eternal 
principle  that  happiness  and  wisdom  may  be  found 
in  a  humble  field,  provided  always  that  it  is  blessed 
by  the  Lord. 

One  day,  when  Fermor  ventured  to  hint  that  Lorimer 
might  with  propriety  be  consulted,  David  burst  out 
vehemently: 

"I  am  writing  this  to  satisfy  you,  not  that  fat 
tradesman." 

And  Fermor,  gazing  steadily  into  David's  blue 
eyes,  perceived  that  this  was  the  truth,  and,  as  he 
pressed  David's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  what 
was  implied,  he  told  himself  that  life  had  given  to  him 
no  moment  of  keener  pleasure  and  pride. 

"  Solomon's  Garden  "  was  more  than  half  done,  when 
the  smiling,  complacent  Mr.  Guillaume  Boileau  sud- 


ii8  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

denly  appeared  in  Sherborne.  He  would  like  a  chap- 
ter to  himself,  but  he  is  not  entitled  to  it,  although 
we  are  all  aware  —  for  he  has  told  us  the  tale  so  often 
—  that  he  made  David  Archdale. 

Mr.  Guillaume  Boileau,  at  the  time  when  he  appeared 
in  Sherborne,  was  not  yet  recognized  as  the  great 
star  of  musical  comedy.  In  the  eighties,  musical 
comedy  was  beginning  to  dispute  the  supremacy  of 
comic  opera.  Boileau,  however,  had  already  achieved 
reputation  as  a  light  tenor.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
Sherborne  solicitor  of  the  name  of  Drinkwater.  As 
Bill  Drinkwater,  he  had  sung  in  the  Abbey  choir, 
side  by  side  with  David,  in  those  early  days  when 
David's  solos  materially  added  to  the  collections. 
Bill  had  been  possessed  of  a  fair  voice,  not  comparable 
to  David's.  But,  later,  Bill's  tenor  was  acknowledged 
to  be  a  marketable  commodity,  whereas  David's 
baritone  was  not.  Drinkwater  being  an  impossible 
name  on  a  concert  programme,  Bill  had  sought  for 
something  more  attractive,  and  David  had  suggested 
Guillaume  Boileau  as  euphonious  and  a  literal  transla- 
tion. Bill  had  been  most  grateful. 

Boileau  came  to  Sherborne  to  sing  in  a  concert, 
at  which  David  accompanied  him.  After  the  concert 
Bill  Drinkwater  dined  with  his  old  friend,  and,  allowing 
for  a  reasonable  amount  of  swagger,  made  himself 
agreeable.  Now  that  he  is,  admittedly,  the  best- 
dressed  man  on  the  stage,  one  hardly  dares  to  mention 
that  he  wore  a  dinner-jacket,  coming  into  fashion 
just  then,  and  a  white  satin  tie.  He  amused  Mary 


SOLOMON'S    GARDEN  119 

by  addressing  her  as  "dear  lady,"  and  David  as  "old 
man."  Upon  the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand  shone 
a  diamond  ring. 

After  dinner  he  sang  some  songs.  David  praised 
the  singer,  not  the  songs. 

"  You  like  my  songs  ?"   said  Boileau. 

"  They' re  sweetly  pretty." 

"  Sweetly  pretty  ?  I  should  jolly  well  think  they 
are.  There's  only  one  man  in  England  can  write 
songs  like  'em  —  Isidore  Schmaltz." 

"  I  know  another,"  said  David. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"He  is  talking  to  you.  I  used  to  make  just  such 
lollipops  when  I  was  a  kid." 

"Old  man,  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,  but  that's 


rot." 


"They  are  knocking  about  somewhere  in  a  big 
envelope." 

"I  have  it,"  said  Mary.  "The  Looker-on  gave 
it  to  me  when  we  married.  He  labelled  the  envelope 
'Ore  from  a  promising  mine.'" 

"I  expect  they'd  give  you  a  fit  if  you  heard  'em 
now,"  said  Boileau. 

"Shall  I  fetch  them,  for  fun  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"No,"  David  answered  lazily. 

"  Ah !     I  thought  he'd  funk  the  test." 

"He  doesn't!"  Mary  replied  indignantly.  "I  will 
fetch  them."  And  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

She  had  difficulty  in  finding  the  envelope,  and  twice 
—  as  she  remembered  afterward  —  she  was  on  the 


120  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

edge  of  abandoning  the  quest.  When  she  handed 
the  envelope  to  her  husband,  he  looked  at  it,  smiling, 
recalling  the  joyous  youthful  days.  Out  of  a  dozen 
sheets  of  music,  he  selected  one,  and  went  to  the  piano. 
As  he  sat  down,  he  half  turned,  staring  at  the  popular 
tenor,  who  was  sprawling  back  on  his  chair,  with  a 
patronizing  smile  upon  his  too  complacent  face. 

'This,"  said  David,  "was  written  when  I  was  fifteen, 
and  it's  prettier  than  anything  you've  warbled  yet." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHICH    INTRODUCES    SOME    CELEBRITIES 

DAVID  played  the  accompaniment,  whistling 
the  air.  Boileau  jumped  up  as  the  last 
chord  was  struck. 

"By  Jove!"  he  gasped.  " It's  exactly  what  I  want. 
Play  another!" 

David  played  half  a  dozen,  introducing  variations. 

"You're  a  wonder,"  said  Boileau.  "Will  you  let 
me  have  these  for  a  week  ?  I'll  show  them  to  a  pal 
who  writes  my  words.  Then,  if  you'll  take  his  words 
and  set  them  properly,  I'll  sing  'em." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  David. 

"Kindness  be  damned!  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Arch- 
dale!  This  husband  of  yours  can't  realize  that  he  has 
a  little  gold  mine  under  his  nose.  Now,  look  here, 
both  of  you!  I'm  not  a  great  musician,  never  was, 
but  I  know  what  the  British  Public  wants,  and  I  give 
it  to  'em,  hot  and  hot.  I  cater  for  the  man  in  the 
street,  because  I'm  a  man  in  the  street  myself.  And 
the  songs  I  sing  —  go!  In  Lorimer's  you'll  see  'em 
tumbling  over  each  other  to  buy  the  latest.  This 
stuff  of  yours,  old  man,  is  better  than  Schmaltz  by  a 
long  sight." 

"Thanks." 

"Evidently  you  don't  believe  me.     All  right,  wait 


122  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

a  year!  And  if  you'll  take  my  tip,  which  I  suppose 
you  won't,  chuck  this  church  music,  and  concentrate 
on  songs.  Gad!  I  never  heard  such  tricky  little 
melodies.  Play  'em  again!" 

David  played  them  again. 

Next  day  Monsieur  Guillaume  Boileau  returned  to 
London,  taking  David's  songs  with  him.  Curiously 
enough,  the  popular  tenor's  enthusiasm  and  admira- 
tion aroused  no  response  in  David.  However,  when 
he  told  Fdrmor  what  Boileau  had  said,  the  man  of 
experience  laughed. 

"  He  is  probably  right." 

"Those  tinkling  melodies:  sugary  trash!  I  wouldn't 
let  him  hear  them,  if  we  were  not  so  confoundedly 
hard  up." 

"Everybody  likes  sugar  in  some  form  or  another." 

A  week  passed,  and  then  David  received  a  peremp- 
tory telegram:  "Come  up  at  once.  Lonmer  must 
see  you.'9 

Lorimer  welcomed  him  warmly  with  a  cordial  shake 
of  the  hand  and  the  emphatic  remark:  "Now  you  are 
coming  into  your  own."  Boileau,  who  was  present, 
introduced  Mr.  Tom  Merryweather,  the  song-writer 
and  librettist. 

"Take  a  good  look  at  Tom,"  urged  Boileau. 

David  obeyed.     Merryweather  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"There's    not   much    to    look    at,"    he    murmured. 

This  was  uncomfortably  true.  Merryweather 
might  have  passed  as  an  apothecary  with  a  diminishing 
business. 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  123 

"Tom,"  said  Boileau,  "looks  rather  tired.  He 
overworks  himself  signing  receipts  for  cheques  on 
account  of  royalties.  What  did  you  make  with  the 
'Laundrymaid,'  old  man?  Tell  David.  It'll  give  him 
an  appetite  for  lunch." 

Merryweather  shrugged  a  thin  pair  of  shoulders. 
In  his  pale,  clean-shaven  face  a  pair  of  gray  eyes 
twinkled  lazily. 

"I  made  much  more  than  the  hussy  was  worth," 
he  said. 

"That's  rot,"  said  Lorimer  emphatically.  "A  thing 
is  worth  what  it  will  fetch  in  the  open  market,  neither 
more  nor  less.  Let's  get  to  business." 

Within  ten  minutes  the  business  was  despatched. 
Merryweather  agreed  to  write  three  lyrics  for  three 
of  the  songs.  Boileau  undertook  to  sing  them  upon 
the  first  opportunity.  Lorimer,  as  publisher,  bought 
the  world's  rights.  A  few  minutes  later,  Boileau  and 
David  were  standing  in  Bond  Street,  taking  leave  of 
Merryweather,  who  refused  luncheon  upon  the  plea 
of  an  impaired  digestion. 

"  He'd  sacrifice  half  his  royalties  if  he  could  eat 
lobster,"  said  the  late  Mr.  Bill  Drinkwater. 

Taking  David's  arm,  and  pressing  it,  Boileau 
began  to  walk  toward  Piccadilly.  David  perceived 
that  his  companion,  who  was  slightly  overdressed, 
glanced  complacently  at  the  foot  passengers.  Some 
of  these  turned  to  look  twice  at  a  face  rapidly  becoming 
familiar  to  all  London.  David  heard  the  women 
whispering  to  each  other  as  they  strolled  by:  "That's 


i24  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Guillaume  Boileau."  Boileau  heard  them  also  and 
smiled  even  more  complacently. 

"You  know,  old  man,  without  bragging,  it's  jolly 
lucky  for  you  that  I  was  there  this  morning.  I  made 
Lorimer  do  the  square  thing  by  you.  He'd  have 
pinched  you  if  I  hadn't  told  him  that  you  were  my 
particular  pal." 

Again  he  pressed  David's  arm  affectionately,  and 
set  his  hat,  a  top-hat,  shiny  and  curly  of  brim,  at  a 
knowing  angle. 

"We're  on  the  make,"  he  continued,  "but  some  of 
us  don't  want  to  hog  it  all.  I  feel  like  a  bottle  of  fizz 
for  lunch." 

At  a  famous  restaurant,  David's  name  as  a  com- 
poser of  popular  songs  was  toasted.  The  room  was 
full  of  people,  and  David  noticed  that  his  companion 
seemed  to  be  upon  intimate  terms  with  some  of  the 
youngest  and  prettiest  women  present.  Near  Boileau's 
table  sat  two  "dashers,"  the  celebrated  Daffy-down- 
Dilly  and  a  friend.  They  greeted  the  tenor  gaily; 
and  he  at  once  introduced  David,  adding: 

"In  the  musical  comedy  which  Tom  Merry- 
weather  is  now  writing,  Miss  Daffodil  and  I  have 
the  leading  parts.  Can't  you  two  darlings  sit  at  our 
table?" 

"We  have  nearly  finished,"  said  Miss  Daffodil, 
demurely.  She  glanced  at  David  out  of  the  corner 
of  a  pair  of  eyes  which  had  captivated  thousands  of 
men,  young  and  old.  Indeed,  the  town  had  prostrated 
itself  at  her  pretty  feet  ever  since  her  appearance  in 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  125 

the  "Laundrymaid."    Also,  she  was  clever,  and  of  this 
David  was  to  have  proof  immediately. 

Boileau,  in  a  not  too  discreet  whisper,  explained 
to  David  that  Daffy  was  engaged  to  the  eldest  son  of 
a  noble  marquis,  and  that  she  behaved  with  exemplary 
propriety. 

"You  whisper  too  loud,"  murmured  Miss  Daffodil. 

"Pooh!"  said  Boileau.  "Don't  be  a  humbug,  Daffy! 
You  want  the  world  and  his  wife,  particularly  the  wife, 
to  gobble  up  the  fact  that  you  are  a  good  little  girl." 

David,  not  altogether  at  his  ease  in  this  high  society, 
glanced  at  other  tables.  He  was  struck  by  the  general 
air  of  prosperity. 

"What  a  jolly  crowd,"  he  whispered. 

'  Jolly  ?  I  believe  you.  Of  course  they  come 
here  to  celebrate.  And  they  share  the  Irish  gentle- 
man's conviction  that  it's  wise  to  make  the  most  of 
life  because  one  is  sure  to  be  a  long  time  dead.  Waiter! 
A  bottle  of  Pommery,  same  I  always  have." 

"Out,  Monsieur" 

During  the  excellent  luncheon  that  followed,  Boileau 
expounded  his  philosophy  to  a  wondering  organist, 
who  tried  to  recognize  in  the  speaker  some  resemblance 
to  the  boy  who  had  sung  in  the  Abbey  choir.  Failing 
in  this,  he  recalled  the  dinner  at  Stormont  Lodge,  and 
launched  a  question: 

"This  is  successful  London,  eh  ?" 

"Right  you  are!     They  want  the  best,  and  get  it." 

"Do  they?" 

"You   bet  your  life,   old   man.     And   now  you've 


126  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

tasted  blood,  you'll  want  it.  At  this  blessed  moment 
my  poor  old  daddy  is  sitting  down  to  resurrection 
pie.  Have  another  glass  of  fizz  ?" 

"They  can't  be  all  as  jolly  as  they  look." 

"  As  for  that,  we  get  the  habit  of  looking  jolly.  And 
it  pays.  Don't  forget  that!  Grins  are  worth  money 
in  this  little  village.  Daffy  couldn't  help  grinning  in 
that  hat,  could  she  ?" 

"Grin  and  wear  it!" 

"Fine!  You'll  do,  David.  I  think  I  shall  call  you 
Dave.  I  say,  Daff,  do  you  think  this  young  man  here 
looks  like  a  David  or  a  Dave  ?" 

"I  shall  call  him  Dave  with  the  smallest  en- 
couragement." 

"Consider  yourself  encouraged,"  said  the  ardent 
Boileau.  "  If  you're  very  nice  to  him,  he  may  write 
you  a  song." 

Instantly  David  perceived  a  flash  of  rather  cold 
hard  light  in  the  pretty  eyes  gazing  into  his. 

"You  write  songs  ?" 

"He  is  writing  three  songs  for  me,"  said  Boileau 
solemnly,  "that  will  be  played  by  every  barrel  organ 
in  the  kingdom  within  six  months." 

"Gracious!"  exclaimed  Miss  Daffodil.  "Better 
have  your  coffee  over  here." 

She  beamed  upon  David  and  insisted  that  he  should 
sit  beside  her.  Boileau  ordered  some  old  brandy. 
The  ladies  ordered  the  same,  and  found  it  so  extra- 
ordinarily mild  that  they  took,  each,  a  second  glassful. 
Presently,  a  tall  young  man,  conspicuously  dressed 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  127 

as  if  about  to  go  rat-catching,  entered  the  restaurant 
and  approached  Miss  Daffodil. 

"It's  my  young  man,  Bingo,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile  that  was  not  quite  natural. 

My  lord  sauntered  up.  His  eyes  were  small  and 
slightly  furtive.  He  nodded  coolly  and  said :  "  Come 
on,  Daffy!" 

She  hesitated,  with  a  tiny  frown  just  visible  upon 
her  forehead.  Then,  swiftly  making  up  her  mind 
to  be  agreeable,  she  said  with  a  gay  laugh:  "All 
right.  You  won't  mind  my  running  away,  dear?" 
She  glanced  at  her  friend,  who  nodded.  "  Mr.  Boileau 
will  take  care  of  you.  Waiter,  my  bill!" 

"  I'll  pay  the  bill,"  said  Bingo  stolidly. 

"  No,  no,"  protested  the  young  lady. 

But  when  the  bill  was  presented,  Bingo  masterfully 
insisted.  David  saw  him  stare  at  the  total,  biting  his 
lips  and  scowling. 

"Done  yourselves  jolly  well,"  he  growled. 

"When  I  ask  a  friend  to  lunch,  I  always  give  her 
the  best." 

"Do   you    always   have   two   glasses    of  brandy?" 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  and  then  David,  to 
his  amazement,  heard  Daffy's  soft  voice  raised  in  indig- 
nant protest. 

"Two?" 

"  Two,  each,  at  half  a  crown  apiece." 

Daffy  laughed,  turning  to  Boileau. 

"The  stupid  fellow  has  charged  us  with  your  extra 
brandies." 


128  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"So  he  has,"  said  the  genial  Boileau.  "Here,  you 
silly  ass,  you've  made  a  mistake.  Two  of  those 
brandies  are  mine  —  see  ?" 

"  Out,  Monsieur." 

A  moment  later,  Bingo  and  Miss  Daffodil  left  the 
restaurant  together. 

"Clever  as  they  make  'em!"  said  Boileau,  with 
real  enthusiasm. 

"Never  knew  her  without  a  gilt-edged  lie  handy," 
admitted  the  friend. 

Next  day,  David  returned  home.  He  told  Mary 
what  had  passed  with  a  derisive  smile  upon  his  face, 
And  then,  to  the  Marionette,  who  was  looking  up  at 
him  adoringly,  he  remarked: 

"You  ought  to  be  a  proud  girl.  The  barrel  organs 
in  London  are  going  to  play  your  daddy's  songs." 

Alone  with  Fermor  and  Mary,  he  spoke  with  vehe- 
mence and  acrimony: 

"I  asked  Lorimer  about  ' Solomon's  Garden.5  I 
actually  played  to  him  'Come,  my  Beloved!'  and  — 
hang  him  —  he  was  as  cold  as  Greenland's  icy  moun- 
tains. He  hinted  that  I  was  off  my  head  and  that  he 
wouldn't  help  to  make  me  madder  than  I  was.  But 
he  raves  about  those  rotten  songs.  All  right,  if  they 
do  go,  I'll  produce  'Solomon's  Garden'  myself." 

"Urn!"   said  Fermor. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  your  oratorio  produced, 
but  it  seems  to  me  —  I  daresay  I  am  wrong  —  that  you 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  129 

can't  expect  to  capture  two  publics.  If  you  establish 
a  demand  for  what  is  played  on  street  organs,  you 
will  have  to  meet  it,  and  continue  meeting  it.  In  a 
word,  you  can't  serve  two  masters." 

"The  public  I  wish  to  serve  won't  listen  to  me, 
according  to  Lorimer." 

Fermor' s  eyes  twinkled. 

"Let  us  admit,  David,  that  it  would  cost  a  very 
large  sum  of  money  to  listen  to  you.  Lorimer  was 
willing  to  publish  the  solos  in  the  cantata." 

"To  share  the  fate  of  the  tonal  poems.  Father, 
I  can't  work  up  as  you  tried  to  do.  It  would  kill  me. 
If  Boileau  is  right,  and  he  seems  a  shrewd  fellow, 
I  shall  make  pots  of  money,  and  then  I  shall  go  back 
to  the  work  I  love." 

"If  you  can,"  said  Mary  in  a  low  voice. 

He  turned  upon  her  sharply. 

"  If  I  can  ?  Didn't  one  of  those  Barbizon  artists 
paint  chocolate  boxes  for  bread  and  butter?" 

"True,"  replied  Fermor,  "but  only  for  bread  and 
butter.  I  understood  that  Boileau  was  going  to  boom 
you." 

"Why  shouldn't  your  songs  be  published  anony- 
mously?" said  Mary. 

"By  Jove!"  said  David.  "What  a  splendid  idea! 
Why,  of  course.  Isn't  she  a  clever  little  woman, 
father?" 

"It  might  be  done,"  said  Fermor.  "But  would 
Boileau  and  Lorimer  and  Merryweather  hold  their 
tongues  ? " 


130  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  I  shall  write  to  them  to-night." 

Accordingly,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  songs  were 
published  anonymously.  The  first  was  a  colossal 
success,  even  as  Boileau  had  predicted.  It  was  sung 
all  over  the  world,  and  turned  into  a  waltz.  The  two 
that  followed  immediately  were  nearly  as  popular. 
David  was  obliged  to  stop  work  upon  his  oratorio, 
but  he  opened  an  account  with  a  London  bank,  into 
which  began  to  trickle  a  steady  stream  of  gold. 
Nevertheless,  he  remained  at  Sherborne  apparently 
unchanged.  Only  Fermor  and  Mary  divined  that 
his  work  in  the  Abbey  had  become  drudgery. 

Finally,  another  of  Lorimer' s  telegrams  summoned 
him  to  London.  But  before  the  publisher  could 
explain  what  he  wanted,  David  burst  out:  "When 
are  you  going  to  produce  'Solomon's  Garden'  ? " 

Lorimer  raised  his  thick  eyebrows. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  not  weaving 
ropes  out  of  that  sand,  when  you've  mountains  of 
flax  in  sight  ?  Tom  Merryweather  wants  you  to  do 
a  musical  comedy  with  him,  and  Williams,  Taffy 
Williams,  is  coming  here  in  half  an  hour.  He's  pre- 
pared to  sign  an  agreement  this  afternoon.  This 
may  mean  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  you.  Let  us 
talk  then  of  oratorios." 

David  felt  the  blood  rushing  into  his  head. 

Lorimer,  eyeing  him  keenly,  continued  talking. 
We  can  guess  what  he  said,  and  how  cleverly  he  said 
it.  At  the  end  he  added: 

"  By  the  way,  isn't  it  time  to  come  out  of  your  shell  ?" 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  131 

"No,"  said  David. 

"As  you  please,  but,  of  course,  the  secret  can't  be 
kept  much  longer/' 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you'll  have  to  rehearse  at  the   Jollity." 

Evidently,  Lorimer  was  taking  for  granted  that  the 
agreement  with  Williams  would  be  signed  that  after- 
noon. Merryweather  and  Boileau,  who  arrived 
together,  took  the  same  view.  Boileau  and  Daffy- 
down-Dilly  were  to  be  assigned  the  principal  parts. 
Daffy,  it  seemed,  had  broken  her  engagement  with 
Bingo  on  the  ground  that  she  did  not  love  him.  This 
astonishing  fact,  judiciously  paragraphed,  brought 
much  grist  to  the  Jollity  mill. 

Then  the  great  man  arrived. 

Taffy  Williams,  at  this  date,  was  universally 
acclaimed  as  the  inventor  of  musical  comedy.  And, 
to-day,  he  admits  modestly  enough  that  he  cannot 
tell  how  musical  comedy  came  to  be.  Like  Topsy  - 
it  growed.  He  alone  would  seem  to  have  grasped  the 
essential  truth  that  you  cannot  give  too  much  of  a 
real  good  thing  to  the  British  Public.  He  was  the 
first  to  count  the  laughs  night  after  night  during  the 
first  week's  run  of  a  piece;  he  insisted  upon  the  repeti- 
tion of  gags  and  funny  business;  he  subordinated  plot 
to  playing  the  fool,  consequence  to  inconsequence, 
and  matter  to  manner.  The  axiom  was  established 
that  ends  —  the  shapeliest  in  the  kingdom -- justify 
means,  and  indeed  create  them.  What  the  peerage 
owes  to  him,  the  peerage  has  recorded.  Restaura- 


i32  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

teurs,  barristers,  solicitors,  tradesmen,  and  ten  thou- 
sand others  regard  Taffy  Williams  as  one  of  the  world's 
greatest  benefactors. 

He  impressed  David  as  a  kindly  man  and,  in  a 
sense,  singularly  modest,  speaking  in  a  deprecating 
tone,  and  giving  to  others  credit  for  the  colossal  suc- 
cesses already  achieved. 

"I  syndicate  talent,"  he  said.  "I'm  always  on  the 
lookout  for  something  fresh  and  clean." 

"He   scours   the   music   halls,"   explained    Boileau. 

Williams   nodded,   exhibiting   a   melancholy    smile. 

"Have  you  arranged  anything,  gentlemen?"  he 
asked. 

"It's  all  cut  and  dried,"  asserted  Boileau. 

"We  have  not  had  a  word  from  Mr.  Archdale," 
said  Lorimer.  "And  he  refuses  to  come  out  of  his 
shell." 

Seeing  David  rather  confused  and  at  a  disadvantage, 
Merryweather  said  pleasantly,  "I  think  we  can 
work  together." 

"Oh,  yes,"  David  admitted. 

"  My  plan  is  simple.  I  am  not  a  composer,  or  course, 
but  I  know  what  Williams  wants." 

"  As  well  as  any  man  living,"  growled  Taffy. 

"  I  say  to  you,  Mr.  Archdale 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  call  him  David,  and  have 
done  with  it,"  interrupted  Boileau." 

Merryweather  continued  suavely:  "I  say,  there- 
fore, let  me  pass  judgment  upon  your  work  on  Mon- 
days, Wednesdays,  and  Fridays;  and  you  slate  mine 


SOME  CELEBRITIES  133 

on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays.  Neither 
is  bound  to  accept  the  suggestions  of  the  other,  but 
each  is  bound  to  listen  civilly.  When  we've  done  our 
little  best,  Williams  has  a  last  word.  I  warn  you  that, 
lamb-like  as  he  appears  now,  he  is  a  tiger  at  rehearsal." 

"I  must  take  time  to  think  this  over,"  said  David. 

Everybody  stared  at  him. 

"  Time  ? "   repeated  Boileau.     "  Good  Lord ! " 
'This  means,"  said  David,  "a  burning  of  ships." 

"Ships?"  echoed  Boileau.  He  appealed  helplessly 
to  Lorimer.  "What  does  he  mean  ?" 

"Mr.  Archdale,"  said  Lorimer,  with  becoming 
gravity,  "has  almost  finished  a  very  fine  oratorio: 
words  and  music." 

"Might  use  some  of  the  music,"  said  Williams 
hopefully.  "  Got  a  bit  of  a  swing,  I  daresay." 

"Quite  impossible,"  said  David  stiffly. 

Lorimer  continued  with  bland  dignity,  although 
inwardly  sensible  that  he  was  skating  over  thin  ice: 
"Gentlemen,  Mr.  Archdale  is  a  genius." 

Everybody  said  "Yes"  and  "Hear,  hear." 

"Being  a  genius,"  continued  Lorimer,  in  an  easier 
tone,  "  he  has  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  stars." 

"  Same  here,"  said  Williams,  "  but  stars  come  expen- 


sive in  oratorio." 


"  I  offered  to  publish  his  solos  in  a  cantata  separately, 
but  Mr.  Archdale  wouldn't  allow  it.  He  demanded 
an  immense  production,  and  I  told  him  quite  frankly 
it  was  impossible.  And  it  is  impossible  to-day.  Why  ? 
Because  as  yet  Mr.  Archdale  has  no  public.  But  let 


i34  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

him  be  known  all  over  England  and  America  as  the 
composer  of  a  popular  musical  comedy,  and  then  - 
well,  if  he  is  still  set  upon  the  production  of  his  ora- 
torio I'll  engage  a  hundred  fiddlers,  but  I  must  have 
a  name  behind  such  a  production  which  will  fill  the 
Albert  Hall  before  a  note  of  the  music  is  heard." 

"Ab-solutely  sound!"   exclaimed  Boileau. 

"If  Mr.  Archdale  won't  be  persuaded,  Schmaltz 
remains/'  said  Williams  heavily.  "He  was  at  me 
last  night." 

Boileau  rose  impatiently. 

"Well  —  there  it  is,  David.  Take  it  or  leave  it! 
I'll  just  say  this:  no  man  of  your  age  ever  h?d  such 
a  chance  before." 

"Never,"  said  Lorimer,  with  emphasis. 

David  rose  also,  with  a  hunted  look  in  his  fine  eyes. 

"I  return  to  Sherborne  to-night.  To-morrow  you 
shall  have  a  wire  from  me  -  -  Yes  or  No.  I  have 
others  to  consider  besides  myself,  but  I'm  sincerely 
grateful  to  you  for  making  me  this  offer.  Good 
afternoon." 

He  went  out  quickly.  Williams  lit  an  enormous 
cigar. 

"The  answer  will  be  'Yes,'"  he  murmured  lazily. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DAVID    CROSSES   THE    RUBICON 

NOTHING  is  more  instructive  than  the  proper 
understanding  of  the  relation  between  small 
causes  and  great  effects.  One  begins,  in 
time,  to  wonder  if  the  two  antithetical  adjectives  are 
not  synonyms.  For  instance,  it  is  probable  that  David 
Archdale's  answer  to  Lorimer  would  have  been  'No' 
had  not  the  vicar's  nephew  happened  to  be  spending 
a  few  days  with  his  uncle.  This  young  man  was  an 
excellent  fellow,  but  indiscreet.  Also  he  had  a  re- 
markable memory  for  faces,  and  David's  face  was 
one  not  easily  forgotten.  Uncle  and  nephew  were  at 
the  railway  station  when  David  returned  from  London. 

"Who  is  that  ?"   said  the  nephew. 

"My  organist,  David  Archdale,"  replied  the  Vicar 
stiffly,  for  the  question  was  asked  too  often  to  be  quite 
agreeable  to  the  autocrat  of  the  Abbey. 

The  nephew  laughed  and  whistled. 

16  Your  organist,  is  he  ?  Trips  up  to  town  —  eh  ? 
Well,  the  last  time  I  saw  Mr.  David  Archdale,  he  was 
having  luncheon  at  one  of  the  smartest  restaurants 
in  London  with  two  Jollity  girls." 

"Impossible,"  said  the  Vicar. 

From  his  uncle's  frigid  tone  the  nephew  realized 
that  he  had  "given  David  away."  Immediately  he 

»3S 


136  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

made  matters  worse  by  adding  ingenuously:  "Of 
course;  I  have  made  an  absurd  mistake.  Your  organ- 
ist has  a  double." 

The  Vicar  dropped  the  subject.  But  he  told  him- 
self that  it  was  his  duty  to  ask  a  question.  Accordingly, 
next  morning,  he  sent  for  his  organist,  and  said 
abruptly: 

"  Mr.  Archdale,  is  it  true  that  you  were  seen,  some 
time  ago,  at  one  of  the  London  restaurants,  with  two 
girls  from  the  Jollity  Theatre?" 

"Quite  true,"  said  David. 

To  another  man  he  would  have  explained  the  circum- 
stances. And  we  must  admit  that  David  owed  an 
explanation  to  his  chief,  but  the  Vicar's  face  was  set 
and  hard,  the  face  of  a  judge  who  has  prejudged  an 
offender.  David's  silence,  moreover,  barbed  the  words 
that  followed. 

"Obviously,  Mr.  Archdale,  you  think  that  this  is  a 
matter  which  does  not  concern  me?" 

"I  do." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  take  this  line  with  me." 

The  slightly  offensive  emphasis  on  the  pronoun 
indicated  threats  of  punishment.  And  the  Vicar's 
manner  was  unconsciously  that  of  a  social  superior. 
More,  since  the  death  of  Dr.  Jubber,  David's  visits 
to  the  vicarage,  in  an  unofficial  capacity,  had  ceased. 
The  Vicar's  wife  and  daughters,  worthy,  well-meaning 
women,  had  been  heard  to  declare  that  "poor  Dr. 
Jubber  had  really  made  an  absurd  fuss  about  his 
organist."  We  shall  not  cite  a  score  of  petty  slights, 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE  RUBICON       137 

mere  pin-pricks,  but  irritating  to  a  sensitive  man,  which 
David  —  to  do  him  justice  —  had  tried  to  forget. 
Very  deliberately  he  said: 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  as  organist,  but  I  resent 
your  question.  I  consider  it  impertinent." 

"  Impertinent,  sir  ?" 

David  smiled.  The  Vicar  was  scarlet  with  rage 
and  indignation. 

"Yes,"  David  continued.  "It  makes  it  impossible 
for  me  to  continue  in  my  present  position.  I  resign 


now." 


"Now?" 

"Now,  sir.  If  you  care  to  apologize,  and  ask  me 
as  a  particular  favour  to  you  to  continue  my  duties 
till  you  find  my  successor,  I  shall  accept  the  apology 
and  remain  with  you,  reluctantly,  a  little  longer." 

The  Vicar  gasped. 

"You  can  go,  sir.  I  shall  not  apologize,  and  I 
anticipate  no  difficulty  in  finding  another  organist." 

Mary  could  not  help  laughing  when  she  heard  this 
story,  but  Fermor  winced.  And  Fermor  had  not  yet 
been  told  of  Lorimer's  offer,  which,  presently,  was 
laid  before  him.  Then  David  added:  "I  have  wired 
an  acceptance  to  Lorimer." 

"Then  the  Rubicon  is  crossed  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  an  instant's  pause.  David  heard  Fermor 
suppress  a  sigh,  but  the  quiet  face  remained  serene, 
the  quiet  voice  said  kindly:  "I  shall  see  the  Vicar  and 
offer  to  take  your  place.  Poor  man!  His  organist 


138  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

drinking  old  brandy  with  two  Jollity  girls!  You  were 
rather  hard  on  him." 

"Pompous,  tyrannical  ass!" 

"Come,  come!" 

"David,"  said  Mary,  "I  suppose  everybody  will 
know  now  that  you  wrote  'In  Cowslip  Time'  and 
'When  Cuckoos  Call'?" 

"  I  didn't  write  the  idiotic  words." 

"Will  this  take  us  from  Sherborne?" 

"Why  should  it?"  David  answered  vaguely. 

Fermor  glanced  at  him.  At  that  moment  he  real- 
ized that  the  boy  he  loved  was  cutting  loose  from  his 
moorings.  Suddenly  he  thrust  out  his  hand. 

"Wherever  it  takes  you,  David,  carry  \*ith  you  my 
belief  that  it  will  be  well  with  you  in  the  end.  You 
were  intended  to  be  a  conqueror.  If  the  Rubicon 
lies  between  the  victory  I  desired  for  you  and  the  easier 
triumph  within  your  grasp,  so  be  it.  I  shall  be  content 
if  you  profit  by  the  losing  of  my  prayers." 

"What  ever  happens,  I  shall  finish  'Solomon's 
Garden'." 

Two  very  pleasant  months  followed.  Sherborne 
acclaimed  the  composer  of  "In  Cowslip  Time,"  and 
David  was  entreated  by  many  young  ladies  to  inscribe 
his  name  in  dainty  albums.  The  Dorchester  Chronicle 
published  an  interview  with  the  talented  young  com- 
poser, and  announced  the  forthcoming  musical  comedy. 
Accommodating  gentlemen  wrote  to  David  offering 
to  lend  him  money  upon  no  security  other  than  his 
note  of  hand. 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE   RUBICON      139 

"The  scoundrels  believe  in  me,"  said  David.  "I 
shall  buy  you  a  pearl  necklace,  Mary."  Then  he  added 
seriously:  " Your  prayers  were  answered,  you  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

Pignerol  was  philosophical. 

"Our  David  has  chosen  the  facile  success,"  he 
remarked  to  Fermor.  "  He  will  be  the  English  Strauss, 
not  Beethoven.  It's  a  secret  grief  to  you,  my  friend, 
but  to  me,  look  you,  all  is  well,  provided  he  remains 
simple  and  clean  and  kind.  That  alone  matters." 

Fermor  hesitated. 

"If  he  is  satisfied-    -" 

"Yes,  yes;  that,  of  course,  is  most  important.     He 
looks  radiant;  the  golden  youth,  I  call  him." 
'The  gold  comes  in,  but  these  jingling  tunes  - 

"If  they  make  tired  folk  dance,  let  us  rejoice." 

The  tunes,  as  Fermor  called  them,  came  to  David 
in  battalions.  The  only  difficulty  was  that  of  selection. 
Upon  this  also  the  Professor  had  whimsical  theories. 

"You  are  the  vehicle,  David,  for  the  expression  of 
pretty  songs  composed  by  musical  children  who  died 
young." 

"I  believe  there  is  something  in  it.  Where  do  they 
come  from  ?" 

"  My  dear  boy,  all  that  is  good  and  fair  is  indestruc- 
tible substance,  although  protean.  You  are  in  it  and 
of  it.  Well,  help  yourself,  take  all  you  can  absorb; 
wallow,  my  young  friend!" 

"I  never  felt  so  fit  in  my  life." 

Soon  afterward,  Tom  Merryweather  spent  a  fort- 


140  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

night  in  the  cottage,  bringing  with  him  the  book 
entitled  "The  Peer  of  the  Peri/'  David  had  received 
a  scenario  some  weeks  before.  The  book  appalled 
him,  although  he  recognized  its  cleverness. 

"Terrible  rot,"  admitted  Merryweather,  "but  that's 
what's  wanted.  Taffy  Williams  is  delighted  with  it." 

Then  David  played  his  songs. 

Some  of  these  were  delightfully  lyrical,  but,  to  his 
amazement  and  disgust,  Merryweather  selected  the 
most  jingling.  His  standard  seemed  to  be:  "Can  a 
boy  whistle  this  after  hearing  it  once  ?" 

An  affirmative  answer  settled  the  matter. 

David  said  to  Mary  that  he  had  never  passed  such 
a  disagreeable  morning.  However,  in  the  afternoon 
a  pleasant  incident  occurred.  He  had  played  over 
his  songs,  when  he  remembered  a  waltz  which  had 
floated  into  his  head  while  he  was  telling  a  fairy  story 
to  the  Marionette.  David  had  come  to  grief  over 
the  story,  which  was  condemned  as  silly  by  his  daugh- 
ter. And  then  he  had  laughed  and  said:  "I  can't  tell 
it,  Marionette,  because  the  pixies  have  been  interrupt- 
ing, but,  by  Jove,  I  can  play  it." 

So  saying,  he  had  rushed  at  the  piano,  and,  an  instant 
later,  the  child  was  dancing  to  measures  which  the 
critics  submitted  afterward  to  be  such  stuff  as  fairies' 
dreams  are  made  of.  And,  curiously  enough,  he  had 
not  thought  of  introducing  this  exquisite  trifle  into  the 
musical  comedy.  He  played  it  to  Merryweather 
because  that  wise  man  had  said  carelessly:  "We  ought 
to  have  some  sort  of  a  fantastic  dance  in  here." 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE   RUBICON       141 

When  he  had  finished,  Merryweather  jumped  up, 
as  Boileau  had  done,  wildly  enthusiastic. 

"  We're  all  right,"  he  affirmed.  "  Fancy  keeping  that 
up  your  sleeve.  Why,  man,  the  whole  world  will  dance 
to  the  most  haunting,  bewitching  thing  I've  ever  heard." 

"Is  it?"  said  David,  genuinely  amazed. 

" Lord!     You  are  a  genius  at  this  game." 

After  much  argument,  David  was  persuaded  to 
introduce  the  theme  of  the  waltz  into  his  overture,  and 
thereafter,  subtly  but  unmistakably,  it  pervaded  the 
whole  comedy. 

"Don't  play  it  to  a  soul!"  counselled  Merryweather. 

When  the  librettist  returned  to  town,  David  suf- 
fered a  reaction.  Setting  Tom's  words  to  music, 
laboriously  conning  every  syllable,  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  the  British  Public  would  listen 
to  such  irrelevant  nonsense,  such  crude  jokes,  such 
vulgar  —  how  that  adjective  rasped  him! — twaddle! 
And,  crowning  humiliation!  at  the  last  moment,  when 
he  bade  Merryweather  good-bye,  the  little  man  had 
said,  with  a  twist  of  his  lip: 

"Of  course,  you  must  be  prepared  for  torture  at  the 
rehearsals.  Taffy  will  have  his  gang  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  us.  And  he'll  cut  and  slash  like  a  Malay 
running  amuck.  I'm  thin  enough  as  it  is,  but  I  always 
lose  a  stone  over  rehearsals." 

The  rehearsals  began  six  weeks  before  the  produc- 
tion, and  David  and  Mary  and  the  Marionette  went 
up  to  London,  taking  modest  lodgings  in  Bloomsbury. 
They  dined  with  Lorimer,  and  after  dinner  the  wonder- 


i4a  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ful  waltz  was  played.  Lorimer,  whom  David  had 
deemed  incapable  of  enthusiasm,  seized  Mary  and 
whirled  her  round  the  room. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  explained.  "You're  a 
wizard." 

Next  day  the  head  of  the  house  of  Lorimer  des- 
patched a  long  cablegram  to  New  York,  which  inspired 
an  offer  from  the  greatest  of  American  managers 
to  buy  Transpontine  rights.  When  this  offer  was 
accepted,  Lorimer  said  to  David: 

"We've  got  a  gold  mine,  I  do  believe." 

Meantime  the  rehearsals  —  as  Merryweather  had 
predicted  —  were  testing  to  the  last  strand  David's 
patience  and  good  temper.  A  score  of  times,  at  least, 
he  was  tempted  to  walk  out  of  the  theatre  and  never 
return  to  it,  but  always  Merryweather  would  whisper 
softly:  "Be  calm!  Taffy  pays  the  piper,  and  we 
must  hop  to  his  piping." 

Taffy  insisted  upon  Schmaltz  being  called  in  to  write 
two  songs.  David  protested. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  the  wise  Merryweather.  "  The 
public  likes  to  see  Schmaltz's  name  on  the  programme. 
Taffy  has  called  upon  Nokes  to  furnish  the  words. 
Nokes  gets  his  little  screw  here,  week  in  and  week  out, 
and  he  must  do  something." 

"The  confounded  thing  is  turning  into  a  hotch- 
potch." 

"We  have  our  agreement,  and  Taffy's  spending  a 
fortune  upon  the  production.  You'll  have  pots  and 
pots  to  invest.  Let  your  mind  dwell  on  that." 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE   RUBICON       143 

Boileau  and  Daffy-down-Dilly  said  much  the  same 
thing  in  words  even  less  academic. 

"It's  a  knock-out/'  said  the  leading  man.  "That 
waltz,  Dave,  will  hit  'em  fair  on  the  point.  All  London, 
not  to  mention  New  York,  will  be  down  and  out." 

"Look  here,  Dave,"  said  the  leading  lady.  "You 
don't  seem  to  know  a  good  thing  when  you  see  it. 
Taffy  Williams  says  you're  ungrateful.  He's  coining 
money  for  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  the  money!" 

"Oh,  Dave,  come  off!    That's  too  thin." 

Everybody  called  him  —  Dave ! 

Upon  the  eve  of  the  production,  Mary  and  he  dined 
at  Stormont  Lodge,  and  sunned  themselves  in  the 
smiles  of  many  distinguished  persons.  Mary,  for  the 
first  time,  wore  a  gown  fashioned  by  a  great  dressmaker, 
and,  anticipating  critical  glances  and  supercilious 
smiles,  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  swells  had  been 
most  kind.  In  her  way,  she  was  as  great  a  success  as 
David.  Her  dimples,  her  freshness,  and  delight  in 
the  beautiful  pictures  and  furniture  enchanted  Mrs. 
Stormont. 

"  You're  the  most  delightful  pair  in  the  world,"  she 
said. 

Driving  to  their  lodging  after  this  memorable  dinner, 
David  said  gaily:  "What  part  of  London  shall  we 
live  in?" 

"David,  are  you  thinking  of  leaving  Sherborne?" 

"Aren't  you?" 


i44  THE    OTHER  SIDE 

"But  father  and  the  Looker-on  ?" 

"We'll  keep  the  cottage,  and  spend  the  summer 
there/' 

"Two  houses  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Mary,  dear,  you  had  a  success  to-night. 
The  woman  who  made  this  gown  must  make  lots  of 
others.  Mrs.  Stormont  whispered  to  me  that  she 
backed  dimples  against  diamonds  any  day." 

"Mrs.  Stormont  says  too  many  nice  things." 

"She  knows  of  a  maisonette  quite  close  to  her,  look- 
ing over  the  park." 

"If  you  talk  like  this  before  the  piece  is  pro- 
duced  " 

He  laughed,  and  kissed  her. 

The  dress  rehearsal  was  an  unforgettable  experience. 
From  beginning  to  end  everything  and  everybody 
seemed  to  exhibit  a  "cussedness,"  which  —  so  David 
was  assured  —  indicated  that  all  would  go  well  at  the 
premiere.  It  lasted  from  five  in  the  afternoon  till 
nearly  midnight;  and  many  well-meaning  persons, 
more  or  less  connected  with  the  musical  comedy  world, 
deemed  it  to  be  their  duty  to  offer  advice  to  the  great 
Taffy.  To  David's  amazement,  Taffy  listened,  per- 
spiringly  and  eagerly,  to  the  increasing  resentment  of 
producer,  composer,  librettist,  scene-painter,  stage- 
manager  and  the  smaller  fry:  every  man  of  whom 
believed  that  what  he  had  done  would  command 
success.  Of  this  seething  syndicate  Merryweather 
remained  calm  and  cool  and  indifferent.  His  indif- 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE   RUBICON       145 

ference  amazed  David,  worn  out  by  the  physical  effort 
of  conducting. 

"Taffy  is  always  like  this,"  said  the  little  man. 
"He's  cutting  some  of  our  best  stuff,  but,  bless  you, 
he'll  put  it  back.  You  see,  to-night,  he  doesn't  care 
a  hang  about  us;  he  wants  to  find  out  what  the  public 
thinks." 

"But  everybody  is  in  a  boiling  rage  —  except  you." 

"A  stir-up  does  'em  no  harm.  They'll  play  for  all 
they're  worth  to-morrow.  You  sit  tight  and  smile." 

"I  can't,"  groaned  David. 

However,  at  supper  afterward,  he  received  many 
congratulations.  Lorimer,  the  host,  was  positive  that 
the  elfin  dance  would  carry  the  town  off  its  feet.  Taffy 
came  in  late,  well  pleased  with  himself,  and  inordi- 
nately thirsty. 

"This  drives  men  to  drink,"  he  observed  to  Mary. 

"And  women  too,"  whispered  Mary. 

She  had  noticed  that  Miss  Daffodil  and  the  second 
leading  lady  were  drinking  much  champagne.  To 
her  horror,  Taffy  said  authoritatively: 

"You  little  dears  have  had  enough  drink.  It's  no 
good  my  telling  you  it's  bad  for  your  morals,  but  per- 
haps you'll  listen  when  I  swear  that  it  will  ruin  your 
complexions.  Off  you  go  to  by-bye !  And  mind  you 
turn  up  sober  to-morrow,  or  there'll  be  trouble." 

Miss  Daffodil  tossed  her  head  as  she  refilled  her 
glass.  Obviously,  she  was  furious  with  the  omnipotent 
one,  and  was  heard  to  say  that  she  would  tell  him  what 
she  thought  of  him  presently.  Taffy  went  on  talking 


146  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

to  Mary,  pouring  into  her  ears  a  torrent  of  explanations 
and  criticisms,  which  she  tried  in  vain  to  absorb  and 
understand.  Around  her  a  battle  of  chaff  was  raging, 
and  with  every  wish  to  play  her  small  part  she  was 
sensible  that  she  was  "out  of  it"  and  never  could  be 
"in  it"  -except  under  protest,  the  stronger  because 
suppressed.  And  the  scene  was  as  unreal  as  anything 
she  had  just  witnessed  at  the  Jollity:  an  absurd  and 
vulgar  travesty  of  life.  Then  she  heard  Taffy's  voice 
saying: 

"You're  a  good  listener,  Mrs.  Archdale." 

"I'm  a  back-seater  —  always  was." 

"But  you'll  have  to  take  a  front  seat  from  now  on." 

She  replied  with  a  smile,  inwardly  quaking.  The 
friendliness  of  these  people  made  escape  impossible. 
She  wondered  whether  she  would  be  called  "Polly!" 
David,  masquerading  as  "Dave,"  was  hardly  recog- 
nizable. With  dismay,  she  heard  him  talking  and 
laughing  too  loudly,  acclaimed  as  "one  of  the  boys!" 
Taffy  whispered : 

"You  owe  me  an  awful  lot.  I  rescued  Dave,  and 
he  knows  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Williams,  musical  comedy  is  not  his  line." 

"My  dear,  dear  lady!" 

"He  looks  upon  it  as  a  means  to  an  end." 

"What  end?  The  West  End?"  Taffy  laughed 
loudly  at  his  small  joke. 

"If  he  makes  money,  he  will  produce  his  oratorio." 

At  this  Taffy  exploded.  But,  perceiving  the  expres- 
sion upon  Mary's  face,  he  became  quiet  and  insistent. 


DAVID  CROSSES  THE  RUBICON      147 

He  assured  Mrs.  Archdale  that  he  was  a  man  of  sense 
with  a  nose  for  sniffing  out  talent.  He  quoted  Lorimer 
in  support  of  the  contention  that  David  was  now  doing 
his  appointed  work.  "Oratorio?  Good  Lord!"  Mary 
murmured  confusedly:  "It  is  magnificent."  Taffy 
replied  rudely:  "Moody  and  Sankey,"  adding  crush- 
ingly:  "  They '11  take  nothing  else  from  him  after 
to-morrow  night.  You  mark  that." 

Later,  alone  with  her  husband,  she  realized  that  for 
the  moment  he  was  obsessed  by  the  possibility  of  failure. 

"Nobody  knows,"  he  said,  "which  way  the  cat  will 
jump.  The  thing's  a  gamble.  Of  course  they've 
rubbed  it  into  me  that  I'm  risking  nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"No  money.  Not  one  of  them,  not  even  Merry- 
weather,  thinks  of  anything  else." 

"David,  dear,"  she  pressed  his  arm,  "for  the  last 
time  I  must  tell  you  that  the  money  is  nothing  to  me. 
I'm  afraid  of  it.  I  want  you  to  succeed,  but  if  success 
means  hobnobbing  with  these  people,  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  wouldn't  prefer  failure." 

"Failure?     A  second  failure?     It  would  kill  me." 

She  heard  his  voice  sob  in  his  throat.  Then  he 
continued  vehemently:  "Do  you  suppose  that  I  like 
these  rowdy  suppers  any  more  than  you  do  ?  I  wanted 
to  go  to  bed.  Never  felt  so  dog-tired  in  all  my  life. 
Lorimer  insisted,  insisted  on  your  coming  too.  It's 
part  of  the  game." 

"That's  it.     I  feel  as  if  it  is  a  sort  of  game,  not  real." 

"It  will  be  real  enough  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI" 

ONE  describes  "The  Peer  and  the  Peri"  quite 
adequately  as  an  up-to-date  transcript  of 
"Pygmalion  and  Galatea,"  with  the  scene 
laid  in  Montmartre.  DafFy-down-Dilly  played  the  Peri, 
a  model  in  a  sculptor's  studio.  Boileau,  as  the  Peer, 
a  young  art  amateur,  falls  in  love  with  a  marble  statue 
of  the  Peri,  having  never  seen  the  original.  The 
sculptor,  the  funny  man,  perpetrates  a  practical  joke 
upon  his  noble  patron.  The  statue  is  delivered,  but 
the  model  has  taken  its  place  upon  the  pedestal,  and 
in  due  time  descends  from  it,  a  charming  flesh-and- 
blood  young  woman.  How  DafFy,  in  the  course  of 
the  second  act,  turns  out  to  be  a  maiden  of  high  degree 
may  be  left  to  the  imagination.  Plot  in  musical  comedy 
is  of  no  account  whatever. 

The  curtain  rose  upon  a  crowded  house.  In  addition 
to  the  usual  first-nighters,  might  be  seen  well-kno%vn  per- 
sons lured  to  the  Jollity  in  search  of  a  sensation.  Every- 
body knew  that  the  composer  had  been  an  organist,  and 
the  fact  whetted  interest  and  curiosity.  The  somebodies 
told  the  nobodies  that  a  new  star  was  about  to  rise  above 
the  horizon.  Mrs.  Stormont  brought  friends  who  were 
enthusiastic  in  pronouncing  "When  Cuckoos  Call"  the 
most  beautiful  song  that  had  ever  been  written. 

148 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE   PERI"         149 

The  box  upon  the  prompt  side  of  the  stage  was  oc- 
cupied by  a  much  bediamoned  struggler  for  Royal 
recognition.  Gossip  whispered  that  the  lady  had  be- 
come a  Roman  Catholic  because,  as  an  earthly  reward, 
certain  great  houses,  and  notably  a  ducal  one,  are 
thrown  open  to  rich  converts.  An  old  bachelor,  who 
attained  social  eminence  by  not  dissimilar  methods, 
affirmed  that  she  had  taken  a  passage  to  the  Cape  and 
back  for  no  less  worthy  reason  than  the  fact  that  a 
Serene  Highness  was  announced  as  a  passenger  upon 
the  same  boat.  Mrs.  Stormont  marked  her  smiles, 
her  anxiety  to  be  recognised  by  the  right  people,  her 
inability  to  even  see  the  wrong  sort  —  from  whom  in 
salad  days  she  had  indiscreetly  accepted  invitations. 
By  her  side  yawned  her  son,  a  fluffy,  callow  youth, 
who  rode  to  hounds  in  terror  of  his  life,  because  that 
also  was  the  "right  thing."  The  brave  fellow  con- 
fessed to  his  mother  that  the  Lord  only  knew  how  he 
suffered  when  he  was  out!  One  of  the  daughters  —  a 
chip,  indeed,  from  the  old  block  —  had  secured  a  hus- 
band by  fainting  opportunely  upon  a  sheet  of  ice  in 
front  of  a  house  whose  owner  refused  to  call  upon 
parvenus.  The  son  of  that  house  had  carried  the  lovely 
burden  into  the  sacred  precincts,  where  to-day  she 
reigned  as  mistress.  In  the  box  opposite  sat  Mary, 
Sebastian  Fermor,  the  Professor,  and  the  Professor's 
family.  David,  of  course,  was  conducting. 

The  overture  aroused  expectation.  Merryweather 
had  entreated  that  it  should  not  be  too  good.  Stage 
effects,  he  contended,  must  be  cumulative.  But  David 


150  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

felt  to  his  finger-tips  that  the  audience  thrilled  when 
he  introduced  the  elfin  theme,  although  it  was  merely 
a  faint  and  elusive  shadow  of  the  real  dance.  Taffy, 
in  his  box,  with  a  couple  of  the  Jollity  directors  beside 
him,  said  oracularly:  ;( That's  going  to  do  the  trick." 
Ten  minutes  later,  Daffy  tripped  on.  She  smiled 
her  famous  picture  post-card  smile  and  began  to 
sing. 

This  song  scored  the  first  success  of  the  evening. 
The  words  were  idiotic,  but  the  music  was  delightful 
to  any  ear  save  that  accustomed  to  the  best.  The 
Professor  applauded,  exclaiming,  "How  pretty!"  and 
repeating  the  phrase  as  if  nothing  more  could  be  said. 
Fermor  thought  of  the  solos  in  "Solomon's  Garden." 
Across  the  theatre,  Taffy  might  be  seen  gesticulating, 
promising  better  things  to  come  to  his  directors.  In 
the  stalls  the  critics  sat  blandly  impassive.  Their 
faces  hardly  relaxed  when  the  funny  man  appeared. 
This  was  the  illustrious  Tommy  Trout,  discovered  by 
Taffy  Williams  in  Leeds,  and  by  virtue  of  his  trans- 
cendent gifts  able  to  command  an  income  equal  to 
that  of  the  Bishop  of  London.  Those  in  the  cheaper 
parts  of  the  house  began  to  laugh  before  he  opened  his 
mouth,  a  reception  which  visibly  impressed  the  direc- 
tors, who  had  complained  of  the  exorbitant  salary 
exacted  by  Tommy. 

"He's  worth  every  penny  of  it,  and  more  too,"  said 
Williams.  "And,  mind  you,  he'll  be  funnier  and 
funnier  every  night.  We've  given  the  little  beggar  a 
free  hand." 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         151 

However,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  no  tremendous 
success  had  been  achieved.  In  the  foyer,  veterans 
like  old  Wrest  and  Thelluson  and  Bagshot  were 
gathered  together,  with  the  youngsters  around  them, 
greedily  picking  up  such  crumbs  as  might  fall  from 
august  lips. 

"It's  coagulated  piffle !"  said  Wrest,  twisting  his 
grizzled  mustache,  "but  it'll  go  for  about  eight 
months." 

"Tommy  is  a  scream  as  usual,"  said  one  of  the 
youngsters,  interrogatively. 

"As  usual,"  repeated  Wrest  savagely.  "And  that's 
why  the  idiots  love  him.  He  rubs  in  his  old  jokes  so 
hard  that  the  stupidest  person  in  the  audience  sees 
them.  Pah!" 

Meantime,  David  was  in  his  wife's  box  listening 
to  the  Professor,  who  was  optimistic  and  enthusiastic. 

"  It's  first-rate  of  its  kind,"  he  asserted.  "  It  supplies 
a  legitimate  demand.  Confound  intellectual  snobbery! 
The  men  who  produced  this  piece  are  as  clever  as  any 
in  England.  Allans  done,  we  come  here  to  laugh,  my 
Marykins.  Is  it  not  so,  mon  vieux  ?" 

He  appealed  to  Fermor,  who  nodded. 

" Let  us  take  life  as  it  is.     I  shout  —  bravo  Strauss!" 

He  laughed  genially,  and  clapped  David  on  the 
shoulder. 

Just  then  Williams  entered  the  box.  David  intro- 
duced Fermor,  and,  as  the  others  stopped  talking,  Wil- 
liams said  in  his  peculiar,  grumbling,  nasal  tones:  "I've 
seen  Wrest.  We're  all  right  if  that  dance  comes  off." 


152  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

As  everybody  except  David  stared  at  him,  he  added 
significantly:    "She's  not  so  drunk  as  I  thought  she 


was." 


"Who  is  drunk  ?"  demanded  the  Professor. 

Taffy  explained,  without  sparing  anybody's  feelings. 
When  he  stopped  there  was  an  odd  little  silence,  during 
which  David  realized  that  he  was  blushing,  because 
he  could  see  into  the  minds  of  his  wife  and  Fermor. 
The  Professor  saved  an  awkward  situation  with  his 
cheery  laugh. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug  of  his  broad  shoul- 
ders, "she  sings  like  a  nightingale.  My  poor  Dave, 
what  you  must  have  suffered!" 

"  What  we  have  all  suffered,"  said  Williams.  "  When 
things  are  running  smoothly  I  shall  go  to  Buxton  and 
let  my  suppressed  rage  ooze  out  of  me.  It's  worse 
than  gout." 

He  took  David  by  the  arm  and  led  him  away.  In 
the  passage  outside,  Mary  could  hear  him  swearing. 

"What  a  life!"  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "Name  of 
a  pipe!  What  a  life!  " 

The  curtain  went  up,  and  the  young  men  began  to 
straggle  back  into  the  stalls.  Whisky  and  cigarettes 
had  stirred  them  to  a  beautiful  enthusiasm.  The 
performance  of  the  now  famous  sextet  was  "warming," 
as  Taffy  put  it.  And  then  came  the  dance. 

At  once,  the  fascination  of  the  opening  bars  pro- 
duced a  significant  silence.  Nobody  was  on  the  stage 
but  the  Peri.  She  stood  listening,  waiting  for  her 
lover,  while  moonbeams  flickered  upon  her.  Boileau 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         153 

entered  on  tiptoe,  stepping  in  time  to  the  music,  which 
was  so  faint  as  hardly  to  be  audible.  Daffy,  seeing 
him,  put  her  finger  to  her  lips.  For  a  minute  at  least 
they  remained  motionless,  spellbound  by  the  magic 
of  the  music.  Hardly  perceptibly,  swayed  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  waltz,  with  the  wide  stage  between  them, 
they  glided  forward.  In  the  moonlight,  their  forms 
became  shadowy  and  colourless.  David  lifted  his 
hand,  and  the  muted  strings  of  the  violins  became 
absolutely  mute.  And  then  the  haunting,  intoxicating 
strain  seemed  to  pronounce  a  benediction.  Daffy 
stood  with  arms  at  her  side,  as  Boileau,  taking  her  head 
between  his  hands,  began  to  dance.  They  moved 
backward  and  forward,  noiselessly,  the  man  gazing 
into  the  girl's  face,  which  gradually  relaxed,  revealing 
the  eternal  surrender  of  beauty  to  youth.  Immediately 
the  tempo  quickened.  A  sight  of  satisfaction  quivered 
from  the  audience.  Probably  not  a  person  present  but 
felt  a  thrilling  of  the  pulses.  Wrest  described  the 
dance  as  a  triumph  of  vibration.  It  bore  the  same 
relation  to  ordinary  dances  which  statuary  bears  to 
painting.  Not  flesh  and  blood,  but  immaculate 
spirits  seemed  to  have  been  materialized  out  of  atten- 
uated and  sublimated  sounds. 

In  silence  the  dancers  vanished. 

Those  present  will  never  forget  what  followed. 
Simultaneously,  with  deafening  and  overwhelming 
violence,  the  house  roared  its  applause.  Men  and 
women  stood  up  and  shouted.  From  the  gallery 
came  a  fog-horn  note  of  delirious  excitement. 


154  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Williams  said  to  his  directors,  imperturbably,  "This 
means  a  dazzling  success." 

Six  times  the  dance  was  repeated. 

After  the  curtain  fell,  the  enthusiasm  was  even  more 
amazing.  The  audience  refused  to  leave  the  theatre 
until  it  had  glutted  its  satisfaction  upon  everybody 
connected  with  the  production.  Taffy  —  cunning 
Welshman  —  arranged  that  David  should  appear  last. 
He  faced  the  huge  crowd  very  pale,  but  smiling.  To 
shouts  of  "Speech!  Speech!"  he  replied  with  a 
nervous  bow.  The  Professor,  falling  back  upon  his 
native  tongue,  kept  on  repeating:  " Le  brave  gar f on! 
Le  brave  garfonl  Bravo,  mon  fils,  bravo!"  Again  and 
again  the  audience  clamoured  for  him,  and  then,  when 
the  curtain  fell  for  the  last  time,  the  assembled  com- 
pany behind  the  scenes  poured  upon  his  stricken  head 
congratulations  and  thanks.  It  was  a  great  moment, 
hardly  supportable  when  Taffy  appeared  leading 
Mary.  The  stage  hands  raised  a  cheer  for  Mrs. 
Archdale.  Her  face,  dimpled  with  delight  but  with 
tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  revealed  the  one  thing 
needful.  David  kissed  her,  and  the  stage  hands 
cheered  again.  Taffy  wiped  a  heated  brow. 

"  Let  us  go  to  supper,"  he  said. 

Upon  the  morrow,  every  critic  affirmed  that  David 
Archdale  had  come  to  stay.  The  mightiest  journal 
in  the  world  proclaimed  thunderously  his  right  to 
style  himself  "Master  of  Melody."  The  paper  with 
the  largest  circulation  headed  two  columns  with  "  Fame 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         155 

and  Fortune  for  David  Archdale,"  and  the  explanatory 
line  —  "An  organist  comes  into  his  own!"  At  the 
Jollity,  the  advanced  booking  eclipsed  all  previous 
records.  To  mark  this  memorable  "first  night"  with 
red,  Daffy-down-Dilly  announced  her  intention  of 
taking  the  pledge:  a  resolution  which  went,  alas!  to 
the  paving  of  Hades. 

Fermor  returned  to  Sherborne  with  the  Pignerols. 
In  the  train  the  Professor  said,  with  many  chucklings: 

"  Our  dear  genius  has  discovered  a  gold  mine.  What 
will  he  do  with  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Fermor. 

A  fortnight  later,  the  Archdales  came  back  to  the 
cottage.  David  said  with  a  gay  laugh:  "By  Jove, 
how  small  it  looks!" 

Next  morning,  they  sat  in  the  garden  and  talked  of 
the  oratorio.  That  must  be  finished  at  once.  Noth- 
ing else  was  possible.  Nevertheless,  throughout  the 
week  that  followed,  constant  interruptions  prevented 
David  from  adding  anything  but  a  few  bars  to  the 
score.  Then  business  connected  with  the  musical 
comedy  summoned  him  to  town.  He  rushed  home  to 
say  that  he  had  secured  the  maisonette  commended  by 
Mrs.  Stormont,  because,  for  some  months  at  least,  he 
must  be  within  touch  of  Williams  and  Lorimer.  After 
the  season,  he  would  be  able  to  give  undivided  energy 
to  his  best  work.  Fermor  acknowledged  that  "Solo- 
mon's Garden"  exacted  undivided  energy;  but  he 
refused  David's  invitation  to  share  prosperity,  affirm- 


156  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ing  that  he  could  never  leave  his  shabby  lodgings. 
Alone  in  them  he  played  a  fugue  of  Bach.  A  presenti- 
ment overwhelmed  him  that  the  oratorio  would  not  be 
finished. 

Mary,  meanwhile,  was  whirled  off  her  feet  by  this 
springtide  of  fortune  and  popularity.  Many  things 
engrossed  her:  the  furnishing  of  the  maisonette,  the 
entertaining  of  new  friends,  and  the  being  entertained 
by  them.  Life  seemed  to  have  become  a  toboggan 
slide.  David  and  she  went  flying  through  the  air  so 
swiftly  that  she  was  hardly  conscious  of  anything 
except  pace.  This  unaccustomed  sense  of  speed 
made  her  dizzy,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  outstripped 
the  fond  plans  and  aspirations  of  yesterday.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  had  dreamed  away  idle  hours  think- 
ing of  a  rosy  future  when  she  might  be  able  to  afford 
a  parlour-maid  and  a  pony-cart  ?  Shortly  after  the  pro- 
duction of  "The  Peer  and  the  Peri,"  David  came  home 
carrying  a  large  bag  full  of  sovereigns,  which  he  emptied 
into  her  lap,  explaining  gaily  that  it  was  hers,  the 
first-fruits  of  success,  and  adding  that  a  shower  of 
increasing  copiousness  might  be  expected  every  week 
for  a  couple  of  years  at  least.  The  musical  comedy 
was  about  to  be  produced  in  New  York,  Paris,  Vienna, 
and  Berlin ! 

At  the  end  of  July  they  returned  to  the  beloved 
garden.  Many  admitted  reluctantly  that  it  did  not 
look  quite  the  same.  Alien  hands  had  watered  her 
roses.  David  declared  that  he  could  smell  damp 
corduroys!  Two  London  servants  turned  up  con- 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         157 

temptuous  noses  when  they  saw  the  pantry.  More- 
over, continuous  rain  drenched  the  month  of  August. 
David  began  work  upon  "Solomon's  Garden,"  but  to 
his  dismay  the  former  inspiration  seemed  to  be  lacking. 
Music  came  to  him,  the  music  of  "The  Peer  and  the 
Peri":  tinkling  melodies  which  drove  him  distracted. 
And  then  Tom  Merryweather  arrived  with  a  scenario 
entitled  "The  Belle  and  the  Tiger/'  which  Lorimer  and 
Williams  insisted  must  be  set  to  music  by  David.  He 
refused  again  and  again,  but  strong  wills  overpowered 
him.  Finally  —  as  Fermor  had  foreseen  —  he  laid 
aside  the  score  of  the  oratorio,  saying  that  he  would 
return  to  it  as  soon  as  the  second  musical  comedy  was 
finished.  All  over  England  bands  and  barrel  organs 
were  playing  "The  Peer  and  the  Peri"  waltz. 

After  Christmas  the  Archdales  went  back  to  London. 
The  Marionette  was  now  nearly  seven  years  old,  and 
quite  able  to  appreciate  the  change  in  her  environment. 
Mary  began  to  perceive  symptoms  of  swelled  head. 
A  Royal  Academician  asked  leave  to  paint  the  child's 
portrait,  and  during  the  sittings  put  too  many  choco- 
lates into  a  small  stomach  and  a  superfluity  of  flattery 
into  a  small  mind. 

"She's  getting  spoiled,"  said  Mary. 

"She's  a  perfect  darling,"  David  replied.  "Every- 
body says  so." 

"I  wish  they  wouldn't  say  it  to  her  face." 

"Pooh!     Sugar  is  good  for  children." 

"It  has  agreed  with  you,  David." 

"You  look  upon  me  as  a  child  ?" 


158  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

She  nodded,  smiling.  He  had  remained  the  golden 
youth,  appealing  irresistibly  to  maternal  instincts. 
Often  Mary  felt  years  older  than  he,  and  at  such  times 
she  wondered  what  would  happen  to  him  if  she  were 
taken  away.  Quite  unconsciously  he  made  multi- 
farious demands  upon  a  wife  who  pleaded  that  nature 
had  intended  her  for  a  "back-seater."  To  please  him, 
she  wore  smart  gowns  and  accepted  dozens  of  invita- 
tions. To  please  him,  she  pretended  that  all  was 
well,  when  every  bone  in  her  body  ached. 

One  night,  at  the  end  of  the  following  season,  he 
noticed  that  the  bodice  of  her  gown  did  not  fit  very 
tightly. 

"Are  you  thinner?"  he  asked. 

"A  little,"  she  replied. 

He  asked  other  questions,  and  became  alarmed. 
She  must  consult  a  supreme  authority.  Mary  en- 
treated him  not  to  fuss,  but,  next  day,  he  made  an 
appointment  with  a  specialist  in  Harley  Street,  and 
took  her  to  the  great  man  himself. 

"Your  wife  needs  a  rest,  Mr.  Archdale." 

David  mentioned  that  they  were  about  to  return  to 
Sherborne. 

"If  I  were  you  I  should  go  to  Spa  instead.  The 
chalybeate  springs  are  rich  in  iron.  The  local  man 
will  prescribe.  There  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about 
—  nothing." 

Alone  with  Mary,  David  said  anxiously,  "I  can't 
account  for  this." 

"We've  been  going  so  fast,  David,  and  I'm  a  slow 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"        159 

coach.  I've  been  trying  to  keep  pace  with  you,  and 
I  suppose  I  can't." 

"We'll  be  ofF to  Spa  at  once." 

After  some  discussion,  it  was  decided  to  leave  the 
Marionette  with  her  grandfather.  The  Archdales 
intended  to  be  absent  at  least  six  weeks,  and  perhaps 
longer.  David  talked  gaily  of  a  second  honeymoon; 
and  Mary,  you  may  he  sure,  was  delighted  to  discover 
that  he  really  wished  to  be  alone  with  her.  Since  his 
wonderful  success  there  had  been  moments  when 
jealousy  lacerated  her.  Not  that  David  was  beguiled 
by  prettier  or  cleverer  women,  but,  insensibly,  a  shadow 
had  crept  between  them,  the  old  shadow  of  infinitesimal 
differences  of  temperament  and  taste.  She  saw  that 
side  of  her  husband  which  justified  his  being  called 
Dave  by  Daffy-down-Dilly  and  Boileau  and  scores  of 
others.  She  asked  herself:  "Is  he  my  David  or  their 
Dave?"  Mrs.  Stormont  answered  the  question  when 
she  said:  "That  wonderful  husband  of  yours,  my 
dear,  is  a  man  of  many  facets." 

Such  women  as  Mary  can  fight  gallantly  against  a 
concrete  jealousy,  but  an  abstraction  paralyzes  them. 
The  thought  rankled  that  one  day  he  might  exact  more 
than  she  could  give.  Her  talents  of  thrift,  patience, 
serenity,  and  the  pleasure  she  had  found  in  small  things 
seemed  to  be  hidden  in  a  heap  of  gold.  Secretly  she 
grieved  because  she  had  only  one  child.  She  yearned 
for  a  son  who  would  have  resembled  his  father.  The 
Marionette  was  a  facsimile  of  herself.  Once  she  had 
said  to  David: 


i6o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Are  you  vexed  because  I  do  not  give  you  a  son?" 

David  laughed  and  kissed  her. 
'What  an  idea!    It's  never  entered  my  head." 

"It's  in  my  heart  always." 

"We  may  have  half  a  dozen  sons.  But  to  me  there 
will  be  one  Mary  and  one  Marionette." 

Fermor  came  up  to  London  to  bid  them  good-bye. 
It  happened  that  David  was  obliged  to  go  out  after 
dinner,  and  Fermor  and  Mary  were  left  alone.  They 
said  little,  but  each  was  conscious  that  David's  absence 
was  significant,  the  more  so  because  for  business  reasons 
he  had  been  obliged,  much  against  his  will,  to  leave 
them.  His  empty  chair  became  a  detestable  void. 
And  in  Fermor's  kind  eyes  Mary  seemed  to  read  a 
pathetic  protest  against  the  fate  which  takes  ruthlessly 
away,  and  leaves  nothing  behind  but  empty  chairs. 
What  had  Fermor  suffered  when  David  left  him  ? 

"Are  you  lonely  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  answered,  pressing  the  hand  which 
she  had  slipped  into  his.  Then  he  added  gravely: 
"  I  am  lucky  in  having  pleasant  memories." 

"  If  you  could  have  come  to  London " 

"  My  dear,  that  was  impossible  for  me." 

"I  shall  tell  you  a  secret;  there  are  moments  when 
London  seems  impossible  to  me." 

"Mary!" 

His  distress  convinced  her  that  if  she  understood 
him,  he  was  far  indeed  from  understanding  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  dislike  noise  and  excitement." 


"THE  PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         161 

"I  thought,  I  hoped,  I  made  sure  that  you  would 
find  it  such  fun." 

"Fun!" 

"David  revels  in  it." 

"Yes.  I  try  to  be  glad  that  it  is  so.  Prosperity 
has  fattened  him;  I'm  skin  and  bone.  Of  course  I'm 
a  fool.  I  can  say  to  you,  dear  Looker-on,  that  I've 
worn  myself  out  running  after  David  instead  of  sitting 
at  home.  You  see,  I  wanted  to  share  his  fun,  even 
if  it  wasn't  fun  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes."  He  sighed  and  then  spoke  reassuringly: 
"  You  will  come  back  strong  and  well,  and  David's  fun 
will  be  fun  for  you." 

"And  if  I  should  not  come  back?" 

"Mary!" 

"  If  it  is  right,  as  father  says,  to  think  of  what  may 
happen,  it  is  right,  surely,  to  speak  of  it  —  to  a  friend. 
The  mention  of  death  distresses  David;  he  regards 
death  as  darkness,  a  blotting-out.  To  me  it  is  just 
the  opposite  —  light.  You  must  know  that  this  world 
would  become  very  dark  to  me,  if " 

"If " 

"If,  through  ill-health,  or — or  incompatibility  of 
tastes,  I  was  not  able  to  share  David's  life.  None  of 
the  married  people  we  know  here  are  united.  Most 
of  them  seem  to  be  drifting  farther  and  farther  apart. 
I  would  sooner  die  than  have  that  happen  to  David 
and  me." 

Fermor  gazed  at  her  in  silence.  She  perceived 
that  he  had  taken  her  seriously,  that  he  was 


162  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

incapable  of  hurling  cheap  banalities  at  her  head.  She 
continued : 

"The  inevitableness  of  it  seems  so  cruel.  Is  it 
the  price  that  must  be  paid  for  a  great  worldly 
success  ?" 

"Yes,"  Fermor  replied  with  finality.  "I  have 
always  interpreted  that  text  about  the  rich  man  and 
the  eye  of  the  needle  as  applicable  to  the  heaven  that 
is  on  earth,  the  heaven  that  lies  about  us,  the  heaven 
in  which  we  have  played  as  children.  Into  that  heaven 
it  is  difficult  indeed  for  the  rich  to  go." 

"We  are  rich,  and  we  shall  be  richer.  The  money 
pours  in  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  I  believe 
there  are  thirty  companies  playing* The  Peer  and  the 
Peri'." 

With  an  effort,  Fermor  confronted  thirty  companies 
piling  up  mountains  of  gold  for  David. 

"Is  it  really  as  bad  as  that?"  he  murmured.  "Has 
he  said  anything  about  finishing  'Solomon's  Garden*  ?" 

Mary  fidgeted. 

"I  don't  think  he  can  finish  it  now." 

"I  knew  it." 

"  'The  Belle  and  the  Tiger'  is  already  roughed  out." 

"Well,  well,  circumstance  is  too  strong  for  most  of 
us.  Meanwhile,  nothing  matters  except  your  health. 
Smile  and  grow  fat." 

"  I  shall  do  my  best.  And  if  anything  should  happen 
to  me,  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  Marionette.  Don't  let 
people  spoil  her." 

"  I  should  do  my  best,"  he  answered  evasively. 


"THE   PEER  AND  THE  PERI"         163 

Fermor  accompanied  them  as  far  as  Dover  on  the 
following  day.  And  he  stood  upon  the  Admiralty  pier, 
watching  the  swiftly  receding  boat  till  it  became  a  blur 
of  smoke  upon  the  horizon.  He  wondered  afterward 
why  his  eyes  had  lingered  on  Mary  rather  than  on 
David.  The  contrast  between  them  had  hurt  him. 
He  was  sensible  of  a  conviction  that  the  stronger 
physically  and  intellectually  had  taken  something  from 
the  weaker  which  could  never  be  given  back.  Dom- 
inating this  conviction  was  the  realization  of  Mary's 
spirituality,  so  much  more  vital  than  that  of  her  hus- 
band's, which  long  ago  Fermor  had  recognized  as  her 
superlative  possession.  As  he  turned  his  face  from 
the  sea  he  muttered: 

"  My  God!     If  she  should  not  come  back!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    WATERS    OF   MARAH 

THE  Archdales  spent  a  delightful  month  at  Spa. 
Within  a  fortnight  roses  and  dimples  came 
back  to  Mary's  cheeks.  Once  more  the 
Professor's  dictum,  that  prayers  were  answered  if  one 
prayed  hard  enough,  was  abundantly  demonstrated. 
Mary  had  prayed  that  David  might  be  wholly  hers, 
and  throughout  this  month  he  hardly  left  her  side. 
Together  they  made  expeditions  to  Franchimont, 
the  Cascade  de  Cou,  Malmedi,  and  Sart.  And  then, 
one  night  at  table  d'hote,  some  stranger  began  to  talk 
enthusiastically  of  the  Ardennes.  To  go  there  after  the 
cure,  or  not  to  go,  became  a  question  to  be  settled  by 
the  toss  of  a  coin.  Neither  David  nor  Mary  wished  to 
leave  Spa.  They  were  happy  and  comfortable  in  their 
hotel.  Ultimately  they  went  reluctantly,  because  they 
had  elected  to  abide  by  the  verdict  of  chance. 

The  stranger  had  commended  a  certain  pension, 
a  picturesque  cottage  standing  in  a  pretty  garden,  in 
which  David  was  destined  to  pass  the  happiest  and  the 
most  wretched  hours  of  his  life.  Upon  arrival,  he 
declared  that  Arcadia  had  been  found,  that  the  forest 
would  inspire  a  symphony  of  soughing  pines  and 
whispering  grasses.  He  hummed  airs  which  flitted  in 
and  out  of  his  head,  and  then  played  them  upon  a 

164 


THE  WATERS  OF  MARAH  165 

jingly  piano  which  stood  in  the  sma/1  salon.  He 
became  again  the  purist  and  enthusiast.  The  spacious- 
ness and  silence  enchanted  him.  He  sent  for  the  score 
of  "Solomon's  Garden"  and  swore  that  he  would  not 
leave  the  Ardennes  till  it  was  finished.  So  engrossed 
did  he  become  in  his  work  that  he  hardly  noticed  the 
curious  langour  which  seemed  to  have  fastened  itself 
upon  Mary. 

The  truth  burst  upon  him  with  stunning  violence. 
She  had  contracted  typhoid  fever. 

At  the  end  of  a  second  week,  Fermor  arrived,  bringing 
with  him  a  Brussels  doctor,  a  man  of  international 
reputation.  The  infection  was  traced  to  a  cup  of  milk, 
drunk  by  Mary  at  a  farm  near  the  Chateau  of  the 
Quatre  Fils  d'Aymon.  David  remembered  that  he 
had  suggested  milk  as  being  safer  to  drink  than  water 
from  the  shallow  well  in  the  middle  of  a  farmyard. 
It  was  torment  to  reflect  that  the  peasants  at  the  farm, 
ungainly,  stupid,  with  heavy  animal  faces,  should  dare 
to  live  when  Mary  lay  a-dying.  For,  after  the  twenty- 
first  day,  it  became,  humanly  speaking,  certain  that  she 
must  die. 

"Can  nothing  be  done?" 

Fermor  shook  his  head. 

"If  —  if  a  miracle  happened,  she  could  never  get 
really  well;  she  would  be  miserably  weak  as  long  as 
she  lived  —  a  wreck." 

David  felt  the  pressure  of  Fermor' s  hand,  and  was 
unable  to  return  it.  He  felt  also  the  sympathy  of  one 
who  had  been  as  father  and  mother  to  him  flowing 


i66  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

toward  him  and  over  him,  but  not  through  him.  He 
knew  that  Fermor  would  have  laid  down  his  life,  gladly, 
if  he,  the  tired  man,  could  have  been  taken  and  the 
young  vigorous  woman  left.  But  such  knowledge 
turned  his  heart  to  ice. 

"I  persuaded  her  to  drink  that  milk." 

"  My  son,  put  such  thoughts  from  you  for  ever." 

"If  I  could  - 

He  spoke  apathetically.  Something  seemed  to  have 
snapped  within  him.  Fermor  dared  not  look  at  his 
face. 

There  was  no  parting,  no  last  words.  Toward  the 
end,  David,  remembering  Mary's  fervent  belief  in 
prayer,  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her  bed  and  entreated 
Omnipotence  to  stretch  forth  his  hand.  And,  in  answer 
to  his  supplication,  a  sigh  of  protest  seemed  to  flutter 
from  Mary's  lips,  and  her  thin  hands  lying  motionless 
upon  the  counterpane  moved  spasmodically,  as  if  she 
were  pushing  life  from  her.  David  rose  from  his  knees. 

She  died  at  two  in  the  morning,  passing  easily  to 
the  other  side.  An  hour  afterward,  when  David  saw 
her  again,  a  soft  smile  lay  upon  her  face.  When 
David  saw  that  smile,  he  locked  the  door.  She  had 
promised  to  return,  if  return  were  possible.  .  .  . 

He  said  in  a  whisper: 

"Mary." 

The  draught  from  the  open  window  may  have  made 
the  flame  of  the  lamp  flicker,  but  David  thought  that 
the  smile  upon  his  wife's  face  had  changed.  It  seemed 


THE  WATERS  OF  MARAH  167 

to   express   derision.     Outside,  the   stars   twinkled   as 
derisively. 

He  went  to  the  window.  She  would  come  —  if 
she  came,  and  already  the  doubt  tormented  him  - 
not  from  the  emaciated  body  abandoned  and  about 
to  decay.  Across  the  mountains,  black  against  the 
luminous  sky,  through  the  pines  which  were  singing 
her  requiem,  she  would  bear  the  celestial  message  of 
everlasting  life.  Out  of  incorruption  his  Mary  would 
rise  from  the  dead. 

Upon  just  such  a  night  they  had  stood  together  upon 
the  high  moorland  of  the  New  Forest,  bride  and  groom. 
He  could  see  her  face,  her  radiant  eyes,  the  dimples 
in  her  cheek.  And,  even  then,  in  the  springtime  of 
youth  and  happiness,  some  instinct  had  told  her  that 
she  would  be  the  first  to  go. 

He  saw  her  again  as  the  little  girl  to  whom  he  had 
plighted  troth  beneath  the  mulberry  tree.  She  had 
been  his  first  love  and  his  only  love,  dearer  to  him  than 
all  the  women  who  had  ever  lived. 

Because  of  that  she  would  come  back. 

Presently,  he  knelt  down,  still  gazing  beyond  the 
trees  at  the  point  where  the  highest  mountain  defined 
itself  against  the  horizon.  She  had  never  failed  him; 
would  she  fail  him  now,  when  he  wanted  her  with  a 
yearning  so  intense  that  his  own  spirit  seemed  to  be 
upon  the  point  of  leaving  the  flesh  ? 

The  soughing  of  the  pines  was  as  the  soft  murmur 
of  tiny  waves  breaking  upon  the  sands  of  time. 

How  long  did   he   kneel  there?     He   never   knew. 


i68  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Fermor,  waiting  in  apprehension  upon  the  other  side 
of  the  locked  door,  was  counting  the  minutes,  not  daring 
to  articulate  the  skeleton  fear  that  obsessed  him. 

When  at  last  the  door  opened  and  David  stood  before 
him,  the  fear  that  lay  cold  about  his  heart  began  to 
take  a  monstrous  form. 

David  passed  without  word  or  glance.  Fermor 
followed  swiftly.  They  entered  the  small  salon  whose 
tall  windows  opened  upon  the  garden. 

"David?" 

"Well?" 

The  men  faced  each  other.  David  stood  near  the 
piano.  Upon  the  top  of  it  lay  the  score  of  the  oratorio. 

"  Two  things  are  left  to  you,"  said  Fermor  slowly. 

"What  things?" 

"Our  love  and  your  work." 

"My  work!" 

He  saw  the  sheets  of  music,  seized  them,  and  was 
about  to  tear  them  to  pieces,  when  Fermor  took  them. 

"Do  you  propose  to  tear  up  our  love?" 

David  answered  coldly :  "  Mary  has  not  come  back." 
Then,  in  the  same  chill  monotone,  but  speaking  swiftly, 
he  added:  "I  was  a  fool  to  believe  she  would.  They 
never  come  back.  Not  one,  not  —  one." 

"Christ  came  back." 

"What  a  fairy  tale!     Mary  is  dead  and  I  am  dead!" 

"You  will  live  again  in  Mary's  child."  As  he  spoke, 
Fermor  realized  that  David  had  forgotten  the  existence 
of  his  daughter.  Then,  with  inspiration,  he  added: 
"As  I  have  lived  in  you." 


THE  WATERS  OF   MARAH  169 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  He  struggled  to  grasp  Fermor' s 
meaning.  "Am  I  to  understand  that  you  have  felt 
what  I  feel  ?"  He  stared  at  the  quiet  face,  so  familiar 
and  so  little  changed.  Then  he  continued:  "You 
never  married;  you  never  loved  a  woman." 

"That  is  true,"  Fermor  replied  with  austerity. 
"  But  I  loved  love.  Before  you  came,  I  can  remember 
telling  myself  that  I  was  dead,  that  the  years  could  hold 
nothing  more  for  me.  My  ambitions,  not  strong  and 
vital  like  yours,  had  become  ashes;  my  health  had  failed; 
I  stood  alone,  drinking  the  dregs  of  disappointment. 
And  they  poisoned  me.  I  have  never  spoken  of  it.  I 
did  not  think  it  was  possible  to  speak  of  it,  even  to  you." 

"And  I  made  you  live  ?" 

The  tone  was  incredulous,  but  some  quality,  hitherto 
absent,  animated  it. 

"You  raised  me  from  the  dead.  You  will  never 
understand  that,  it's  impossible  that  you  should,  until 
you  live  in  and  for  another." 

"I  lived  for  Mary." 

"  My  poor  David,  are  you  sure  of  that  ?" 

"I  cannot  live  without  her." 

His  voice  became  again  hard  and  defiant.  He 
glanced  at  the  open  window.  Fermor  could  see  what 
was  in  his  mind. 

"Because  Mary  is  not  permitted  to  return,  you  are 
thinking  of  following  her.  David,  you  will  not  find 
her  that  way." 

"  How  can  you  know  ?" 

"I  do  know." 


1 7o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

He  spoke  with  authority,  tightening  his  grip  upon 
David's  hand.  In  a  different  tone,  using  the  pleasant, 
never  didactic  inflections  which  years  before  had  made 
David  not  only  willing  but  eager  to  obey  him,  Fermor 
continued : 

"You  are  an  honourable  man.  You  pay  your  debts. 
You  owe  me  something." 

"  Everything  —  everything.     Even   Mary." 

"Do  you  realize  that  your  self-destruction  would 
kill  me?" 

"Father!" 

"It  is  true." 

David  said  in  a  low  voice:  "I  have  been  mad." 
Then,  with  impatience,  he  added:  "Will  you  come 
with  me  ?  I  must  walk.  I  must  breathe  fresh  air. 
I  am  choking." 

He  hurried  out,  followed  by  Fermor.  Side  by  side 
and  in  silence  they  took  the  open  road,  which  to  the 
left  descended  sharply,  and  to  the  right  ascended  as 
sharply  to  the  crest  of  a  high  hill.  Years  before, 
upon  the  morning  when  Fermor  adopted  David,  the 
choice  between  the  hill  and  the  plain  had  presented 
itself.  Now,  as  then,  David  chose  the  hill.  Fermor 
recalled  that  ascent  to  Jerusalem:  he  could  hear  the 
child's  joyous  laugh  and  feel  the  small  hand  thrust 
confidingly  into  his  own.  It  was  morning,  then,  and 
summer  was  chasing  spring  from  the  landscape. 
Now,  it  was  night  and  autumn.  In  the  chill  air  hung 
the  faint  but  unmistakable  odour  of  decay.  The 
leaves  were  falling  from  the  trees. 


THE   WATERS   OF  MARAH  171 

David  walked  fast,  and  Fermor  kept  pace  not  without 
effort.  But,  suddenly,  David  paused  and  said  with 
compunction:  "I  have  been  rushing  along  without 
considering  you.  Forgive  me!" 

Fermor  was  in  the  mood  to  give  to  these  simple  words 
a  wider  and  deeper  application.  He  replied  gaspingly: 
"Let  me  take  your  arm." 

Did  David  perceive  that  Fermor  was  deeply  moved  ? 
The  younger  man's  consideration  at  such  a  moment 
seemed  to  be  a  divinely  inspired  answer  to  some  sorrow- 
ful questions.  From  the  day  of  his  adoption  till  the 
day  when  the  Archdales  left  Sherborne,  the  relations 
between  these  two  had  been  amazingly  satisfactory. 
How  dear  and  soul-sufficing  are  the  tiny  acts  of  love 
and  thoughtfulness  which  a  grateful  child  can  offer 
to  a  devoted  parent!  How  tragic  it  is  to  see  these 
withheld!  David  had  not  withheld  such  sweet  obla- 
tions, and  again  and  again  Fermor  had  laughed  to 
himself,  reflecting  that  the  Vicar  had  suggested  the 
possibility  of  his  "being  let  down!" 

To-night,  the  possibility  so  scorned  had  taken  place. 
David  had  torn  Fermor' s  heart.  He  had  shewn  that 
he  could  "do"  without  Fermor.  But  he  had  con- 
fessed afterward  that  he  was  mad. 

Arm  in  arm,  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

The  world  about  and  beneath  lay  without  form  and 
colour;  dawn  was  at  hand.  In  the  east,  a  soft  silvery 
radiance  floated  up  behind  the  hills,  accentuating  the 
stern  rigidity  of  their  black  gloom,  the  solemnity  of 
their  everlasting  loneliness.  Nowhere,  in  Namur, 


172  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

do  the  mountains  rise  to  a  height  greater  than  two 
thousand  feet,  and  for  the  most  part  they  present 
wooded  and  rounded  contours,  distinctively  pastoral 
and  Arcadian.  Only  here  and  there  a  sharp  peak 
breaks  the  graceful  curves,  giving  to  the  landscape 
the  mountain  note  of  passion  and  power.  The  general 
expression  is  that  of  undulation  and  harmony.  And 
this,  quite  unconsciously,  had  been  embodied  in 
David's  oratorio.  He  had  seized,  with  true  artistry, 
the  flowing  lines  ever  rising  and  falling  in  curves 
which  possessed  a  common  vanishing-point,  and  this 
subtle,  rippling  effect  of  form  he  had  transposed  into 
sound.  But  now,  in  the  dark  hour  which  precedes 
dawn,  all  was  obscure.  The  breeze  passed,  leaving 
the  singing  pines  silent.  Out  of  the  gorge  below 
ascended  the  plaintive  cadence  of  water  escaping 
from  confining  rocks. 

David  stood  still. 

"Perhaps,"  he  whispered,  "Mary  will  come  now. 
Pray,  pray  that  it  may  be  so." 

Fermor  felt  David's  arm  rigid  as  iron  against  his 
own.  At  the  moment  he  believed  that  Mary  might 
come  back,  that  her  spirit  could  hardly  resist  such 
passionate  importunity.  Surely  time  and  place  pre- 
sented tremendous  claims.  David  and  he  stood  far  from 
human  habitations,  above  the  fret  and  fury  of  fleshly 
desires,  alone  and  together  in  a  communion  of  the  spirit. 

But  Mary  did  not  come. 

Beyond  the  hills  the  light  increased,  and  colour 
began  to  inform  it,  opaline  at  first,  a  scintillating, 


THE  WATERS  OF  MARAH  173 

crystalline  admixture  of  ineffable  tints.  The  edge 
of  a  cloud  caught  a  crimson  ray  and  held  it  captive. 
Gold  glittered  upon  the  crest  of  the  most  distant  peak. 

Fermor  said  to  David: 

"I  beheld  the  mountains,  and,  lo,  they  trembled, 
and  all  the  hills  moved  lightly.' ' 

David,  haggard  and  dry-eyed,  answered  hoarsely: 
'The  world  is  alive,  but  my  Mary  is  dead." 

"She  lives/'  said  Fermor,  almost  with  violence. 
"Can  you  look  at  that  and  doubt?" 

He  pointed  to  the  sun,  rising  in  stainless  majesty: 
the  ever-recurrent  miracle,  the  sublime  assurance  of 
Man's  resurrection.  The  myriad  rays  streamed  upon 
the  awakening  earth;  changing  the  meanest  and  dark- 
est objects  into  things  of  beauty  and  glory.  Moss  and 
lichen,  fern  and  leaf,  tiny  pebble  and  vast  boulder,  for- 
est, mountain,  and  stream,  became,  each  in  its  degree, 
organic  parts  of  a  transcendent  whole.  And  over 
land  and  sky  brooded  the  peace  that  passes  man's 
understanding  only  because  he  is  engrossed  with  his 
own  works,  great  or  small,  and  blind  to  the  works  of 
God,  and  to  the  gospel  which  each  reveals. 

David  made  no  answer.  The  sun  shone  upon  his 
face,  white  and  hard  as  marble,  upon  his  clenched  hands, 
upon  his  rigid  form,  upon  his  tearless  eyes  in  which 
defiance  and  despair  seemed  to  smoulder  dully. 

"Leave  me,  please,"  he  said. 

Fermor  obeyed  in  silence,  knowing  that  the  worst 
could  not  happen,  but  knowing  also  that  the  best, 
the  supreme  opportunity,  had  come  and  gone. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT   THE    ARCHDALE    ARMS 

THREE  months  after  Mary's  death,  David 
returned  to  London,  looking  to  the  discern- 
ing eye  older  and  thinner.  The  "Peer  and 
the  Peri "  was  still  running  at  the  Jollity  with  undimin- 
ished  vigour  and  popularity.  The  "profession"  received 
him  with  effusion,  tempered  by  sympathy;  and  this 
cordiality  —  to  which  he  responded  —  made  him  real- 
ize that  he  belonged  to  a  world  which  works  (and 
sometimes  weeps)  in  order  that  others  may  laugh. 
Hitherto,  he  had  felt  that  he  was  in  this  world,  but  not 
of  it.  Between  Sebastian  Fermor's  adopted  son  and 
such  persons,  let  us  say,  as  Boileau,  Williams,  and 
Daffy-down-Dilly  stretched  an  Atlantic  of  differences, 
waves  upon  which  he  had  tossed,  feeling  at  times 
uncomfortably  sea-sick.  He  had  told  himself  that 
wide  oceans  must  be  crossed  in  life's  journey,  and 
then,  like  many  another  philosophic  traveller,  thought 
of  the  good  dry  land  whereon  he  would  walk  upright. 
Without  extenuation,  let  the  fact  be  set  down  that 
David  chose  the  baser  sort  to  be  his  companions.  In 
the  same  spirit  of  indifference  and  recklessness  Captain 
Archdale  had  so  chosen  before  him.  It  is  easy  to  know 
the  baser  sort,  and  difficult  to  escape  from  them. 
David  might  have  found  friends  amongst  the  best, 

174 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  175 

but  he  was  aware  that  this  would  demand  an  effort. 
The  second-raters,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  accepted 
him  upon  his  own  terms.  They  wanted  him  and  told 
him  so:  an  insidious  form  of  flattery.  Also,  they 
were  accessible  at  all  hours.  David  was  suffering  from 
insomnia.  Had  he  been  wise,  he  would  have  compelled 
sleep  by  exhausting  his  body  with  hard  physical  exercise. 
Instead,  he  joined  a  couple  of  clubs  crowded  with 
cheery,  thirsty  fellows  till  three  in  the  morning.  One 
night,  the  craving  for  sleep  drove  him  to  the  use  of 
drugs.  Under  their  influence  he  had  a  vision  of 
Mary,  a  Mary  with  horror  in  her  eyes.  When  he 
became  himself,  he  pitched  the  drugs  out  of  the  window. 
After  this  experience  he  hoped  that  Mary  might  come 
back  in  his  dreams,  with  some  whisper  of  solace  and 
encouragement.  Such  happiness  was  denied  to  him. 
In  a  few  dreams  he  had,  she  remained  incalculably 
distant,  unapproachable.  He  consulted,  with  a  sense 
of  disgust,  certain  mediums,  through  whom  "communi- 
cations" were  transmitted,  but  the  messages,  trite, 
crude,  and  more  than  once  offensively  vulgar,  might 
have  come  from  a  housemaid,  never  from  Mary.  He 
admitted  that  there  were  phenomena  in  connection 
with  these  seances  which  seemed  inexplicable,  although 
hardly  more  so  than  the  avowed  "tricks"  of  Messrs. 
Maskelyne  and  Devant.  And  he  was  assured  that  he 
came  to  darkened  "parlours"  in  the  wrong  spirit, 
which  was  not  so.  He  was  seeking  the  truth,  but 
he  sought  it  in  the  wrong  place. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  years  he  had  accepted  a  material 


176  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

creed,  the  creed  of  his  innumerable  acquaintance. 
Sleep  and  health  came  back  to  him,  and  with  them 
an  increased  appetite  for  work  and  the  results  of  work. 
The  "Belle  and  the  Tiger,"  which  succeeded  the  "Peer 
and  the  Peri,"  enjoyed  a  colossal  success.  It  became 
impossible  for  David  to  enter  a  restaurant  without 
hearing  one  of  his  compositions.  Regimental  bands 
played  his  marches;  Young  England,  male  and  female, 
warbled  his  songs;  his  waltzes  were  inscribed  upon 
every  ball  programme  throughout  the  world.  There 
were  "David  Archdale"  ties  and  collars  and  cigars  and 
roses ! 

Universal  recognition  not  only  tickled  agreeably  his 
vanity,  but  became  in  time  as  necessary  as  bread  or 
wine. 

And,  meanwhile,  amongst  a  motley  company  of 
actors,  singers,  dancers,  writers,  and  painters,  of  whom 
it  might  be  said  that  each  lived,  as  joyously  as  possible, 
in  and  for  the  passing  hour,  the  daughter  of  Mary  was 
changing  from  a  child  into  a  woman. 

Of  course,  she  had  ceased  to  be  the  Marionette.  We 
meet  her  now  as  Mollie,  a  young  lady  who,  for 
several  years,  and  by  many  hundreds  of  persons, 
had  been  made  to  understand  that  she  held  an 
unassailable  position  in  the  heart  of  her  father  and 
his  friends. 

David  adored  her. 

Everybody  knew  it,  and  took  advantage  of  it.  A 
"chorister"  out  of  a  job  at  the  Jollity  Theatre 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  177 

was  certain  to  be  engaged  if  she  was  clever  enough 
to  approach  David  through  Mollie.  Students  of  singing 
and  dancing  were  sure  of  the  popular  composer's  atten- 
tion, if  Molly  chose  to  play  their  accompaniments. 
A  discreet  present  to  Mollie  was  paid  for  ten  times 
over  by  David. 

Mollie  remembered  vividly  the  night  when  her 
father  had  come  back,  looking  so  white  and  thin.  She 
was  staying  at  the  time  with  the  Professor,  hitherto 
regarded  as  a  "jokey"  man,  full  of  quips  and  sur- 
prises, and  with  large  bulgy  pockets  in  which  might  be 
found  chocolate  and  acidulated  drops.  Being  then 
but  seven  years  old,  the  shock  of  her  mother's  death 
had  made  only  a  temporary  impress.  Moreover,  the 
Professor  habitually  spoke  of  death  as  a  change  for  the 
better.  Very  tenderly,  he  had  explained  to  the  child 
that  the  mother,  although  invisible,  was  still  alive.  In 
a  score  of  ways  he  appealed  to  a  sensitive  imagination. 
He  bought  a  bottle  of  scent  for  her,  and  explained  that 
flowers  lived  again  in  perfume,  although,  as  blossoms, 
they  had  vanished.  He  possessed  many  objects  made 
by  Mary.  He  showed  each  to  the  child,  saying:  "The 
hands  that  made  this  are  gone,  but  the  love  which 
guided  the  hand  remains.  We  can  forget  the  love, 
but  even  then  it  is  there,  waiting  for  us  to  remember 
it."  By  such  talk,  death  was  presented  without  terrors. 
And  there  had  been  no  funeral  to  arouse,  with  its 
barbaric  trappings  of  woe,  nightmare  imaginings  of 
a  beloved  body  buried  in  the  cold  earth.  Mary  lay 
in  the  English  cemetery  at  Spa.  But  when  the  child 


1 78  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

saw  her  father,  instinctively  she  realized  that  something 
tragic  had  taken  place.  He  arrived  late,  when  she 
was  in  bed.  But  she  heard  his  step  upon  the  stairs, 
and  with  a  glad  cry  rushed  to  meet  him.  She  had 
expected  to  be  smothered  with  kisses,  the  kisses 
which  —  so  she  said  to  her  grandfather  —  had  been 
growing  for  three  months.  David  picked  her  up,  and 
held  her  at  arms'  length,  staring  into  her  eyes,  searching 
for  the  Mary  who  had  vanished,  trembling  with  fear 
lest  what  he  sought  might  once  more  elude  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  muttered.     "Mary  is  there,  a  part 
of  her  at  any  rate." 

"Daddy,  what's  the  matter?  How  odd  you  look!" 
He  did  not  answer,  but  kissed  her  hungrily,  straining 
her  to  him,  and  presently,  as  he  sat  beside  the  bed, 
holding  her  hand,  she  perceived  that  tears  were  rolling 
down  his  cheeks,  and  that  he  was  unaware  of  this,  for 
they  fell  unheeded  upon  his  coat,  while  he  talked 
lightly  of  his  travels  and  a  rough  passage  across  the 
Channel.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  child  peered 
beneath  the  obscuring  veil  of  words  and  saw  sorrow 
masquerading  as  mirth.  And  with  this  vision  came 
the  realization  that  her  father  was  "pretending," 
hiding,  or  trying  to  hide  —  for  he  had  failed  miserably 
—  his  true  self.  With  the  tears  welling  into  her  own 
eyes,  she  wondered: 

"Why  does  daddy  laugh  when  he  wants  to  cry?" 
But,   unhappily,    she   was    too    frightened    to    ask 
aloud    a    question   which    might   have   broken   down 
barriers. 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  179 

Behold  the  child  a  young  lady  of  seventeen!  You 
will  note  at  once  the  resemblance  to  the  mother.  But 
whereas  Mary  had  been  merely  "  nice-looking,"  Mollie 
was  a  beauty.  She  flew  the  red,  white,  and  blue, 
inheriting  from  David  the  fine  texture  of  skin,  the 
delicate  features,  the  nicely  proportioned  form.  She 
had  her  mother's  brown  hair,  but,  brightening  it  delight- 
fully were  golden  threads  of  the  same  tint  and  quality 
as  the  curl  which  Fermor  cut  from  David's  head  the 
day  after  he  had  adopted  the  child.  Her  eyes  were 
azure;  her  hands  and  feet  were  slenderly  fashioned. 

Fermor  often  wondered  how  it  came  to  pass  that 
with  parts  so  different  the  whole  should  resemble  the 
mother  so  startlingly.  Mollie  had  Mary's  ways: 
tricks  of  gesture  and  expression.  Mary  seemed  to 
reveal  herself  in  the  child's  glance,  in  her  smile,  in 
dimples  reproduced  with  absolute  fidelity,  most  of  all 
in  her  voice. 

Never  forgetting  his  promise  to  Mary,  Fermor  tried 
to  "keep  an  eye"  on  Mollie.  But  he  had  promised 
more  than  he  could  perform.  And  his  eyesight,  in 
more  senses  than  one,  was  failing.  He  defined  with 
difficulty  those  objects  only  which  were  close.  Mollie 
in  London,  surrounded  by  hosts  of  friends,  became 
a  whirling  blur  revolving  at  such  a  high  rate  of  speed 
that  by  the  mere  exercise  of  centrifugal  force  she 
unconsciously  discarded  influences  alien  to  her  vigor- 
ous personality. 

Long  ago,  David  had  left  the  maisonette  for  a 
"mansion"  in  Portland  Place,  a  fine  old  house  with 


i8o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

stately  rooms  admirably  designed  for  the  exercise 
of  a  lavish  hospitality.  Mrs.  Stormont  christened  it 
"The  Archdale  Arms."  She  remained  David's  friend, 
although  she  complained  of  the  people  she  met  at  his 
house.  Opening  wide  her  own  doors  to  everybody  in 
London,  irrespective  of  birth  or  money,  who  represented 
credentials  of  talent  or  intelligence,  she  had,  at  the  same 
time,  displayed  marvellous  discrimination  in  excluding 
the  humbugs  and  the  ill-bred. 

We  meet  her  again  in  David's  drawing-room,  upon 
the  eve  of  MolhVs  eighteenth  birthday.  Her  hair  is 
gray,  her  figure  rather  more  massive;  otherwise  she 
is  unchanged. 

"Definite  purpose  fires  your  eye,"  said  David,  as 
they  shook  hands. 

"Quite  right.  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  about 
Mollie." 

"My  weak  spot." 

"  Exactly.  I  have  always  regretted,  David,  that  you 
didn't  marry  again.  For  that  matter,  it's  not  too  late. 
I'm  sure  Kate  Melbury  would  have  you." 

"Kate  and  I  are  still  pals,  although  I  see  little  of 
her." 

"That  is  your  fault.  Kate  is  fastidious.  She  abom- 
inates most  of  your  friends  as  much  as  I  do." 

David  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  assume  an  indifference  which  ill  becomes  a 
father." 

"Perhaps  it  is  assumed." 

"Oh —  ho!" 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  181 

"When  Mollie  comes  out  there  must  be  some 
weeding/' 

"  If  you  wait  till  then,  my  dear  man,  it  will  be  too 
late.  And  it's  rubbish  to  talk  of  Mollie's  coming  out. 
She  is  out.  She  has  always  been  out.  I've  come  here 
to  insist  upon  Mollie's  coming-in." 

"A  finishing  school?" 

"  If  you  like  to  call  Stormont  Lodge  that,  I  shall  not 
be  offended.  Lend  her  to  me  for  a  year." 

David  uttered  a  gasp  of  surprise. 

"Lend  you  my  Mollie  for  a  year?"  he  repeated 
incredulously. 

"Yes." 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you." 

"It  is  —  wonderfully  kind.  I  suppose  I've  got  a 
conscience  somewhere,  and  it  pricks  me  whenever 
I  look  at  you.  There  are  moments  when  I  wonder 
what  your  life  would  have  been  if  I  had  not  med- 
dled with  it.  I  did  meddle  —  deliberately.  And  the 
result—  Well,  it  has  not  turned  out  quite  as  I 
expected,  nor,  I  fancy,  as  you  expected." 

"That's  true,"   said   David  gloomily. 

"  You  have  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  tree,  but " 

"  It's  the  wrong  tree." 

"It  might  have  been  a  mountain  peak.  Now,  can 
I  speak  with  absolute  candour?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  a  daughter  whom  you  have  done  your 
best  to  spoil.  Don't  interrupt  me!  You  imagine 
that  the  feeling  between  you  both  is  the  real  right  thing, 


182  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

but  it  isn't.  You  believe  your  love  to  be  unselfish. 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  Unless  I  am  making  a  criminally 
unintelligent  blunder,  Mollie  is  and  has  been  to  you 
not  a  young  girl  of  human  clay,  but  a  sort  of  lay  figure 
upon  which  you  have  draped  a  robe  of  samite.  It 
makes  you  feel  good  to  look  at  your  dear  little  saint, 
and  it  pleases  you  enormously  to  exhibit  her  to  the 
multitude,  as  if  she  were  Our  Lady  de  Bonnes 
Nouvelles  exalted  above  the  heads  of  the  unwashed 
and  the  infirm." 

"But- 

"  I  am  wound  up,  and  I  must  finish.  I  have 
rehearsed  this  scene;  I'm  word  perfect.  You  have 
never  really  entered  into  Mollie's  life;  she  has  never 
entered  into  yours." 

"What  exaggeration!" 

"Test  my  statement.  Do  you  talk  to  her  of  your 
work,  your  cares,  of  your  health,  of  what  you  believe 
or  disbelieve  ?" 

David  was  silent. 

"  Does  she  tell  you,  day  by  day,  her  changing  views 
of  life  ?  Does  she  whisper  to  you  her  troubles,  her 
girlish  hopes  and  fears  ?  Can  you  name  her  favourite 
hero,  her  cardinal  virtue,  her  besetting  sin  ?  Could  you 
write  out  a  synopsis  of  her  character  and  tastes  and 
disabilities  ?" 

"I  love  her  devotedly  and  she  loves  me,"  he  replied. 
"  We  are  always  happy  together.  That  is  my  test." 

"Are  you  together  much  ?" 

"Not  as  much  as  I  could  wish." 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  183 

"Will  you  lend  her  to  me?" 

"Ha-ha!  I  have  you  now.  You  talk  of  tests. 
Mollie  is  so  happy  here  that  she  wouldn't  go.  Your 
offer  is  the  kindest  in  the  world,  but  horses  wouldn't 
drag  Mollie  from  Portland  Place." 

"My  horses  shall  do  so,  if  I  am  given  the  chance. 
Let  Mollie  decide." 

"All  right.  It's  courting  a  rather  humiliating 
refusal.  You  can  offer  lures  - 

"Lures?"  She  interrupted  him  sharply.  "I  can 
teach  the  child  what  she  will  never  learn  in  this  house." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  The  difference  between  a  gentleman  and  a  bounder. 
Don't  frown!  You  think  she  knows  that  much  at 
least.  Well,  she  doesn't.  How  should  she  ?  And,  if 
she  finds  out,  she's  quite  likely  to  prefer  the  bounder." 

"What?" 

"Keep  cool!  The  bounders  I  meet  here  are  clever. 
That's  why  you  ask  them.  But  the  gentlemen,  my 
friend,  are  rather  dull.  They  come  to  be  amused  by 
your  clever  bounders.  I  want  to  show  Mollie  some 
clever  gentlemen." 

David  stared  at  her  shrewd,  masterful  face.  She 
was  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  woman  of  experience. 
Also,  she  looked  at  this  moment  portentously  serious. 
Hesitatingly,  he  admitted  that  he  had  not  given  suffi- 
cient thought  to  the  future,  that  perhaps  she  was 
right. 

"Upon  these  matters  I  am  always  right,"  said  Mrs. 
Stormont. 


1 84  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"All  the  same  Mollie  will  refuse  to  leave  me." 
Mrs.  Stormont  smiled,  much  to  the  irritation  of 
David.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  mocking  at 
the  thing  he  held  most  sacred  —  his  love  for  Mary's 
daughter.  Mrs.  Stormont,  of  course,  was  a  cynic, 
altogether  a  kindly  one,  and  habitually  she  railed 
against  sentiment,  which  —  so  she  contended  —  blinded 
and  confounded  the  majority  of  her  countrymen. 
But  it  would  be  fatuous  to  question  her  worldly  wis- 
dom, and  he  realized  with  a  shock  that  the  gentle- 
men who  came  to  his  house  were  dull.  Men  of  dis- 
tinction dropped  in  and  dropped  out.  As  a  rule 
they  came  without  their  wives.  Since  Mary's  death, 
David  had  prided  himself  upon  the  fact  that  his  house 
was  a  hotel  for  men  of  talent.  And  indeed  he  had  been 
extraordinarily  kind  to  the  strivers  and  strugglers, 
particularly  generous  to  young  musicians  and  actors. 
From  such  seed  as  "fivers"  slipped  into  emaciated 
hands,  and  innumerable  dinners  warming  the  cockles 
of  chilled  hearts,  he  had  reaped  an  immense  popularity, 
which  in  turn  warmed  him.  With  a  sigh,  and  a  slightly 
defiant  glance,  he  continued: 

"You    can    ask     Mollie     here    and    now,     before 


me." 


"So  be  it." 

When  the  girl  entered,  she  kissed  Mrs.  Stormont, 
and  then,  crossing  to  her  father,  stood  by  his  chair  with 
her  hand  resting  lightly  upon  his  shoulder.  David 
smiled  confidently,  anticipating  a  small  triumph.  He 
felt  grateful  to  his  old  friend,  but  really  she  seemed  to 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  185 

have  misapprehended  the  nature  of  the  tie  which 
bound  a  father  to  a  daughter.  Poor  dear  woman! 
She  was  childless.  That  accounted  for  so  much.  He 
was  still  smiling  when  he  said: 

"Mrs.  Stormont  has  come  here  to  see  you." 
Mollie  crossed  to  Mrs.  Stormont.  A  slight  frown 
flickered  across  David's  forehead.  There  are  moments 
when  the  tinest  action  or  gesture  or  even  the  inflection 
of  a  word  becomes  stupendously  significant.  David 
had  never  noticed  that  this  was  a  trick  of  Mollie's, 
this  graceful  flitting  from  one  person  to  another,  this 
bird-like  fluttering  to  the  call. 

"I  want  your   father  to    lend  you  to  me    for  this 


season/3 


"How  awfully  kind  of  you,"  said  Mollie. 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  Mrs.  Stormont's  cheek. 
David  winced.  Suddenly  he  reflected  that  Mollie 
had  always  been  too  free  with  her  kisses.  True, 
she  was  very  affectionate,  but  kisses  —  if  regarded  as 
coin  available  for  the  payment  of  debts  of  kindness  - 
ought  to  be  apportioned  carefully.  He  saw  that 
Mollie's  delicate  hand  rested  upon  Mrs.  Stormont's 
shoulder  as  confidingly  as  it  had  rested  upon  his  own. 
And  she  looked  down  upon  the  shrewd,  genial,  massive 
face  with  beaming  eyes. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  presented  by  me,  child  ?" 

David  stirred  in  his  chair,  leaning  forward. 

"  I  should  love  it,"  exclaimed  Mollie,  enthusiastically. 
"Oh,  Daddy,  isn't  it  a  wonderful  surprise?" 

"Yes,"  said  David  with  a  laugh,  "it  is  — wonderful! 


186  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

You  can  run  away,"  he  continued.  "I'll  settle  the 
details  with  Mrs.  Stormont,  but  she  wished  to  hear 
from  your  own  lips  whether  you  were  really  keen 
about  it." 

"Of  course,  I'm  keen,"  said  Mollie. 

She  ran  gaily  from  the  room,  and  David  rose  and 
went  to  the  window.  Outside,  a  barrel  organ  was 
playing  the  now  hackneyed  waltz  out  of  "The  Peer  and 
the  Peri."  This  incident  can  hardly  be  termed  a 
coincidence.  The  organari,  and  in  particular  those 
who  came  from  Ireland,  were  scrupulous  in  rendering 
tribute  to  the  Caesar  of  musical  comedy.  If  David 
happened  to  be  at  home,  it  was  accepted  as  such, 
and  suitably  acknowledged. 

David  flung  open  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
man  at  the  organ  was  very  dark;  he  supported  a  red 
silk  fazzoletto  on  his  head;  in  his  ears  were  small  gold 
rings. 

"Is  that  you,  Barney  ?" 

"It  is,  sorr,"  replied  a  rich  Corkian  voice. 

David  flung  the  man  a  shilling. 

"Take  that,  cross  the  road,  and  play  my  waltz  in 
front  of  Mr.  Isidore  Schmaltz's  house." 

David  closed  the  window,  and  turned  to  see  an 
astonished  pair  of  eyes. 

"When  I'm  hit  hard,"  he  murmured,  "I  like  to 
touch  up  somebody  else.  Puerile  —  eh?" 

"You  are  very  human,"  murmured  Mrs.  Stormont. 
Then,  she  put  out  her  hand  and  added  gravely:  "I 
am  sorry,  but  you  mustn't  blame  Mollie.  You  have 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  187 

left  her  too  much  alone;  and  she  is  ambitious;  and 
she  wants  —  and  needs  —  change." 

When  Mrs.  Stormont  had  gone,  David  said  to  him- 
self, passionately:  "My  God!  Why  does  Mary's 
child  fail  me?" 

Why  had  Mollie  failed  him  ? 

We  have  tried  to  show  two  sides  of  David's  character. 
Like  many  artists,  he  was  governed  by  his  affections 
and  ambitions.  His  best  music,  which  the  world  had 
never  heard,  expressed  what  was  best  in  him.  The 
music  acclaimed  by  millions  expressed  what  was 
second-best,  and  everything  below  that  —  strength 
and  weakness.  Perhaps  the  essential  difference 
between  the  music  of  "The  Peer  and  the  Peri"  and 
"Solomon's  Garden"  was  this:  —  the  musical  comedy 
set  forth  sparklingly  David's  emotional  side,  his  sense 
of  colour  and  form,  his  joy  in  life  and  light,  and  his 
remarkable  genius  in  being  able  to  transpose  his 
feelings  into  sound;  the  oratorio,  on  the  other  hand, 
expressed  this,  and  much  more.  For  in  its  composition 
David  had  soared  above  himself,  above  ordinary  life, 
into  an  empyrean  of  selflessness  truly  infinite  and  divine. 

"Awake,  O  north  wind;  and  come,  thou  south;  blow  upon  my 
garden,  that  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out." 

This,  Mary's  suggestion  for  the  opening  recitative, 
indicated  David's  original  attitude,  his  appeal  to  what 
was  without  rather  than  within.  All  great  music, 
all  enduring  literature,  everything,  in  short,  which  is 
destined  to  live,  must  possess  and  exhibit  a  quality 


188  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

which  even  the  illiterate  are  constrained  to  recognize 
as  unearthly  and  from  hence. 

Fermor  knew  this,  and  knew  also  with  conviction 
that  David's  genius,  if  beguiled  from  higher  to  lower 
things,  would  build  upon  shifting  sand  instead  of 
solid  rock,  and  that  in  time  the  sand  must  engulf  both 
work  and  worker. 

Did  David  know  it  ? 

Not  yet. 

He  was  afloat  upon  a  high  tide,  with  every  stitch 
of  canvas  set  to  a  spanking  breeze.     With  the  full  of 
wind  and  tide  he  would  find  himself  upon  the  Goodwin 
Sands  of  a  facile  success,  sinking  into  it,  choked  by  it  - 
derelict! 

And,  already,  signs  were  not  wanting  to  show  that  the 
tide  was  flowing  less  freely,  that  the  wind  was  beginning 
to  fail.  The  critics  were  still  kind,  but  they  complained 
that  Archdale's  later  work  fell  short  of  his  own  standard. 
Two  musical  comedies  in  succession,  produced  at  enor- 
mous expense,  were  taken  off  at  the  end  of  a  six  months' 
run,  much  to  the  discontent  of  the  Jollity  Board  of 
Directors.  His  songs,  waltzes,  and  marches  were 
still  immensely  popular,  but  a  new  star  was  rising  in 
Hungary  and  —  according  to  Lorimer  —  likely  to 
shine  with  even  greater  brilliancy  than  David  Archdale. 
Isidore  Schmaltz,  meeting  David  at  the  rising  star's 
premiere,  quoted  malevolently: 

"  So  have  I  heard  on  Afric's  burning  shore 
Another  lion  give  a  grievious  roar, 
And  the  first  lion  thought  the  last  a  bore.'* 


AT  THE  ARCHDALE  ARMS  189 

David  had  laughed.  Jealousy,  which  rends  so 
many  artists,  never  lacerated  him.  Always  he  had 
been  ready  to  praise  the  work  of  other  men,  and  to 
perceive  what  was  best  in  it;  a  generous  gift  denied  to 
most  musicians,  who  too  often  are  self-absorbed  and 
vain.  Perhaps  he  was  jealous  of  himself,  and  secretly 
exasperated  because  his  first  musical  comedy  was 
held  to  be  his  best:  the  high-water  mark  by  which 
subsequent  productions  were  measured.  In  fine,  so 
far  as  ambition  was  concerned,  we  must  admit  dis- 
appointment, and  an  inordinate  appetite  to  taste  once 
more  a  superlative  triumph. 

What  of  his  affections  ? 

During  many  months  after  Mary's  death  the  power 
of  loving  seemed  to  have  been  taken  away.  He 
could  analyze  love  with  detachment,  and  place  an 
inestimable  price  upon  it,  because  he  had  lost  it. 
For  a  season  even  Fermor  and  Mollie  became  negligible 
quantities.  He  could  no  longer  think  of  them  as  his, 
although  it  is  likely  that  he  clung  to  the  conviction  that 
he  remained  theirs.  This  conviction  fortified  him, 
when  he  was  tempted  to  drown  misery  in  wine,  or  in 
the  company  of  light  women.  Had  he  been  vicious 
as  a  young  man,  he  must  have  fallen  to  the  depths, 
but  vice  repelled  him.  The  possibility  of  buying  love 
seemed  the  horror  of  horrors,  an  unthinkable  abom- 
ination. 

Later  he  had  thought  more  than  once  of  a  second 
marriage.  But  inevitably  he  compared  the  dead  wife 
with  her  possible  successor,  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

living  woman.  Comparing,  also,  his  married  life  with 
that  of  his  many  friends,  he  could  not  escape  the  con- 
clusion that  he  had  been  amazingly  fortunate;  and  he 
told  himself  reluctantly  —  for  he  was  still  young  and 
ardent  —  that  an  unhappy  marriage  would  not  only 
be  a  disaster  in  itself,  but  would  stain  the  record  of 
the  first. 

We  find  him,  therefore,  while  still  under  forty-five, 
concentrating  his  affections  upon  his  daughter,  and 
his  ambitions  upon  a  triumph  which  would  eclipse 
that  memorable  first  night  of  the  "Peer  and  the  Peri." 

Why  had  Mollie  failed  him  ? 

He  was  unable  to  perceive  that  the  fault  lay  with 
himself.  He  had  gratified  childish  whims;  he  had 
lavished  upon  her  material  things  and  the  tenderest 
caresses.  He  would  have  died  for  her,  had  such  a 
sacrifice  been  demanded.  In  fine  he  had  given  so 
much  that  she  was  beginning  to  hanker  after  what  was 
not  in  David's  power  to  bestow:  a  triumph  in  Mayfair. 
Moreover,  it  was  true  that  he  did  not  know  either  her 
favourite  hero  (which  modesty  may  have  prevented 
him  from  naming  to  Mrs.  Stormont)  or  her  besetting 
sin  (whose  existence  he  may  have  questioned).  There 
are  thousands  of  just  such  fathers  in  the  world's  greatest 
city. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DAVID    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

WHEN  Mollie  left  her  father's  house,  a  vacuum 
was  created.   David  had  just  cut  loose  from 
Taffy  Williams;    although  a  comedy  of  his 
was  still  running  at  the  Jollity  Theatre.     The  pressmen, 
with  that  indifference  to  fact  which  distinguishes  and 
some  time  extinguishes  them,  affirmed  that  the  separa- 
tion was  amicable.     But  everybody  knew  that  a  row 
had  taken  place. 

David,  indeed,  was  tired  of  Taffy  and  his  methods. 
He  contended  that  the  British  Public  was  tired  also,  but 
this  —  according  to  Merryweather  —  remained  to  be 
demonstrated. 

At  this  crisis  in  David's  life,  the  choice  between  great 
and  small  once  more  presented  itself.  Freed  from 
shackles  which  had  fettered  him  not  the  less  because 
they  were  golden,  he  was  in  a  position  to  take  up  his 
early  aspirations,  and  to  give  them  a  run  —  so  to 
speak  —  with  money  which  he  had  desired  to  earn  for 
that  purpose.  To  produce  "Solomon's  Garden"  at  the 
Albert  Hall,  to  submit  it  as  a  magnificent  answer  to 
critics  who  contended  that  he  was  unable  to  write  any- 
thing of  better  quality  than  "The  Peer  and  the  Peri" 
might  secure  a  colossal  triumph,  and  a  niche  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame.  But  the  possibility  of  a  failure  as 

191 


IQ2  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

colossal  terrified  him.  He  belonged  to  a  famous  club, 
the  Buskin,  and  was  one  of  its  most  popular  members. 
The  Buskin  prides  itself  upon  infallible  judgment 
concerning  everything  connected  with  the  theatrical 
world.  And  certainly  the  collective  wisdom  of  its 
representatives  is  not  to  be  gainsaid.  Men  like  old 
Wrest  and  Thelluson,  who  were  writing  dramatic 
criticism  when  the  Bancrofts  played  at  the  Haymarket 
Theatre,  had  laid  down  axioms  which  permeated 
club  talk  and  thought.  These,  for  the  most  part,  were 
negative  and  pessimistic,  such  as:  "The  public  does 
not  know  a  good  thing  when  it  sees  it,"  or,  "The 
public  goes  to  the  theatre  to  be  amused,  not  to  be 
instructed/'  or,  "The  best  work  of  this  generation  may 
be  accepted  by  our  grandchildren."  Sometimes,  after 
luncheon,  under  the  influence  of  the  best  tobacco  and 
the  club's  old  brandy,  there  might  be  found  a  few 
enthusiasts  who  thought  more  kindly  of  the  Public, 
but  these,  newly  joined  members  as  a  rule,  were  soon 
talked  down  if  Wrest  happened  to  be  present.  The 
old  man  exploited  a  remarkable  memory.  He  inun- 
dated you  with  lamentable  details  concerning  fine 
work  that  had  failed,  of  men  hounded  to  poverty  and 
suicide  because  they  were  ahead  of  their  times.  Every 
word  was  trenchant.  Whenever  he  finished,  there 
was  a  brisk  demand  for  fresh  cigars  and  more  drinks, 
to  clear  the  pea-soup  fog  settling  down  upon  a  company 
of  which  each  man,  in  his  line,  might  reckon  himself 
successful,  and  in  his  soul  more  or  less  sensible  that 
under  happier  conditions  he  might  have  done  better 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  193 

work.  The  motto  of  the  Buskinites  was  "Hold  fast  to 
substance,  beware  of  shadow!"  The  most  distinguished 
members,  barristers,  actors,'  dramatists,  novelists  and 
painters,  writhed  uneasily  thinking  of  Christmas  bills. 
Convention  and  fashion  had  enthralled  them.  Harring- 
ton, for  instance,  the  Royal  Academician,  admitted 
with  genial  frankness  that  a  diminution  of  income  was 
the  only  skeleton  in  his  closet.  Late  one  night,  alone 
with  David,  he  burst  out: 

"I  despise  my  work.  Once  I  dominated  it:  now 
it  dominates  me.  I'd  like  to  tackle  something  big, 
but  I  haven't  the  pluck.  I  tried  a  dash  upward  some 
years  ago,  and,  O  Lord!  what  a  cropper  I  came! 
But  in  my  little  soul,  David,  I  knew  that  the  best  I  had 
ever  done  was  in  that  much-abused  picture.  It  had 
stuff  in  it:  imagination,  faith,  courage." 

David  listened,  thinking  of  "Solomon's  Garden,"  long 
ago  buried  beneath  musical-comedy  scores.  He  knew 
that  he  was  conspicuous  as  a  shining  example  of  a  man 
of  talent  who  gave  to  his  public  exactly  what  it  wanted 
in  allopathic  doses.  Then  he  said: 

"I  wrote  an  oratorio  once." 

"You?"  Harrington  roared  with  laughter  . 

"Yes.  It  was  like  your  picture.  It  had  'stuff'  in 
it.  I  may  produce  it  yet." 

Harrington  stopped  laughing.  He  liked  David,  and 
his  hand  pressed  his  friend's  arm  as  he  whispered 
confidentially :  "  My  dear  fellow  —  don't !  That  picture 
of  mine  cut  my  income  in  half  for  two  years.  And 
the  Missus  reminded  me  I'd  just  sent  Tommy  to 


194  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Eton;   and   little   Effie  was  coming  out.     I   couldn't 
get  away  from  that,  my  boy — eh?" 

Very  few  Buskinites  did  get  away  from  "that," 
except  upon  the  wings  of  postprandial  fancy. 

Soon  after  Mollie  left  him,  David  travelled  down  to 
Sherborne.  His  visits  to  Fermor  had  become  less 
frequent  as  the  years  passed.  Fermor  was  now  an 
old  man;  and  he  had  always  looked  at  life  with  tired 
eyes.  Often  his  serenity  exasperated  David.  The 
difference  between  them  was  hardly  to  be  bridged 
except  by  gratitude,  and,  as  Fermor  smilingly  refused 
substantial  gifts,  gratitude  could  only  be  expressed 
in  words.  Fermor  had  said  once: 

"Give  me  as  much  of  your  company  as  you  can, 
David.  I  ask  for  nothing  else." 

"If  you  would  live  with  me,  father?" 

"In  London?     My  dear  boy,  that  is  impossible." 

Upon  arrival,  David  told  Fermor  that  he  had  cut 
loose  from  Taffy  Williams  and  the  Jollity  directorate. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  rushed  down  here  to  ask  for 
advice.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  and  the  Professor.  I'm 
tempted  to  produce  "Solomon's  Garden." 

"Oh!" 

"Of  course  Lorimer  calls  me  Humpty-Dumpty. 
I  funk  a  fall.  What  do  you  feel  about  it, 
father?" 

"David,  you  know  what  I  feel  about  it." 

"It's  still  unfinished.     I  hate  to  tell  the  truth  even 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  195 

to  you,  but  after  Mary's  death  I  couldn't  finish  it.     I 
haven't  looked  at  the  score  since." 

"You  think  you  could  finish  it  now?" 

"I  think  so.  I  wonder  what  the  Professor  would 
advise." 

"Consult  him." 

'The  dear  old  man  and  I  haven't  much  in  common." 

"Is  that  his  fault?"  asked  Fermor. 

David  did  not  answer.  Between  himself  and  the 
Professor  affection  bloomed  bravely,  although  it  lacked 
the  tender  leaves  of  sympathy  and  confidence.  David 
held  his  father-in-law  to  be  "unsound"  -the  adjective 
which  long  ago  had  provoked  protest  from  Mary  - 
because  Pignerol  refused  to  reckon  as  complete  a  life 
other  than  that  of  domestic  affection  and  peace.  Like 
Fermor,  he  had  refused  to  accept  anything  from  a 
rich  son-in-law  except  his  company.  David  had  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  pay  for  the  keep  of  a  carriage. 

"A  carriage  ?  A  horse  ?  To  carry  me  from  a  home 
where  I  am  perfectly  happy?" 

'To  carry  you  to  a  home  where  you  are  perfectly 
happy." 

"  My  brave  David,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  but  it's 
my  object  to  banish  care  from  my  life.     Our  brother, 
the  horse,  is  a  beast  of  burdens,  but  he  imposes  burdens 
-quoi?" 

After  tea,  David  walked  up  the  hill.  He  found 
Pignerol  in  his  garden  busily  engaged  in  bedding  out 
certain  plants  which  formed  an  old-fashioned  star  at 
one  end  of  the  lawn.  Year  after  year,  this  bed  was 


196  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

reproduced  with  fidelity,  because  originally  it  had 
been  set  out  by  Madame  Pignerol.  In  the  centre  was 
a  cypher,  an  'L'  and  an  'M'  intertwined:  the  initials 
of  the  Christian  names  of  husband  and  wife.  The 
Professor  allowed  none  to  interfere  with  this  labour 
of  love  and  sentiment.  He  and  his  believed  that 
Madame  Pignerol  assisted  also  in  spirit. 

"How  is  the  book  getting  on?"  said  David,  after 
the  first  greetings. 

"  It  is  not  yet  finished.  Saperlipopette!  What  would 
you  ?  Two  thousand  years  have  failed  to  reconcile 
Science  with  Religion.  Do  you  expect  me  to  do  it 
in  ten  days  ?" 

"But  you  have  been  twenty  years  at  it." 

"I  may  be  twenty  more.  I  see  you  staring  at  these 
ropes.  The  big  elm  is  under  sentence  of  decapitation." 

"What?" 

"It  serves  him  right.  He  is  all  for  outward  show, 
that  fellow.  How  he  spreads  himself,  the  peacock! 
But  his  roots  are  contemptible.  I  have  no  respect  for 
the  elm.  He  stands  for  what  I  despise.  We  chop 
off  his  swollen  head  to-morrow." 

"You  look  wonderfully  well,"  said  David. 

"I  am  well;  there  is  nothing  wonderful  about  that. 
It  would  be  wonderful  if  I  were  ill.  But  you  are 
pale  and  thin." 

"I  am  worried." 

"I  should  think  so,  up  to  your  neck  in  London 
clay.  Heaven  be  thanked,  I  have  found  my  right  soil 
and  so  will  you.  It's  a  thousand  pities,  rnon  enfant, 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  197 

that  you  are  so  —  so  unscientific.  You  might  learn 
much  from  what  you  despise  as  little.  Has  it  ever 
struck  you  that  vagabond  seeds  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  the  wind  infallibly  find  the  soil  most  likely 
to  nourish  them  ?  You  are  not  as  clever  as  a  seed !" 

David  made  no  reply. 

"Perhaps  you  are  a  gilded  marigold,  a  marsh 
marigold.  He  flourishes  in  slimy,  poisonous  soil." 

"I'm  a  fool,"  said  David  vehemently.  "I  can't 
make  up  my  mind,  and  I  want  you  and  father 
to  make  it  up  for  me." 

Pignerol  made  a  grimace.  And,  as  David  talked, 
he  grimaced  again,  shaking  his  head  and  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  Ultimately,  he  presented  the  spectacle 
of  a  stout,  red-faced,  white-haired  philosopher  astride 
a  fence.  When  David  finished  he  growled  out: 

"  Mon  fils,  it  is  not  easy  to  stand  in  your  shoes,  and 
evidently  you  cannot  abide  my  slippers.  I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  have  parted  from  the  worthy  Taffy,  but  he 
has  left  his  mark  on  you.  He  hung  the  tinkle-tinkle 
bell  around  your  neck." 

David  exploded  for  the  second  time. 

"Damn  the  tinkle-tinkle  bell,  and  all  the  other 
bells!" 

"Don't  get  excited!  You  lose  force  with  your 
'damns!'  It's  an  act  of  criminal  extravagance  to 
squander  force.  Let  us  talk  reasonably.  Why  do 
you  wish  to  produce  your  oratorio?" 

"  Heavens !  To  justify  myself.  To  prove  that  I  am 
what  I  was  intended  to  be." 


198  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Can  you  write  another  *  Solomon's  Garden'?" 

"Another?  Time  enough  to  discuss  that  when  the 
first  has  been  accepted." 

"Accepted?     By  whom?" 

"By  the  public,  of  course." 

"And  if  the  public  does  not  accept  it  ?" 

"That  is  what  is  bothering  me." 

"Our  good  Fermor  says  it  is  magnificent.  I  am  not 
a  musician.  I  don't  know." 

David  hesitated.  About  his  best  work  he  was  still 
modest. 

"It's  all  right,  I  believe.     One  never  knows." 

"One  always  knows.  Everything  that  I  have  done 
which  is  good,  I  know.  Often  I  have  been  doubtful 
about  what  is  indifferent  or  even  bad.  But  the  good  — 
Bah!  that  jumps  to  the  eye  from  the  bottom  of  the 
wise  soul!" 

"I  meant  that  one  never  knows  whether  others  will 
recognize  it  as  good." 

"That  is  what  you  are  after,  hem,  recognition. 
But  you  have  had  it  already,  pressed  down  and 
running  over." 

"Slopping  over." 

"My  son,  you  puzzle  me." 

Beneath  his  kind,  quizzical  eyes,  David  blushed, 
beginning  to  have  a  belated  vision  of  himself  as  the 
philosopher  saw  him,  knowing  also  that  evasion 
would  be  futile  and  foolish.  He  answered  rather 
defiantly: 

"I  want  an  enduring  success." 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  199 

"And  if  it  is  denied,  would  you  accept  failure  philo- 
sophically?" 

David  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Pignerol  laughed  and 
took  his  hand,  patting  it  paternally. 

"I  cannot  advise  you,  mon  fils." 

After  leaving  Green  Hill,  David  paid  a  visit  to  the 
cottage  in  Westbury.  Long  ago  he  had  sold  the  lease 
of  it,  and,  since  his  wife's  death,  had  not  been  near 
it,  because  it  held  tormenting  memories  of  a  great 
happiness  which  might  have  been  even  greater  had  he 
but  realized  how  soon  it  was  coming  to  an  end.  For 
a  similar  reason  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak 
of  Mary  to  Mollie.  And  he  was  glad  that  Mary's 
body  lay  in  a  remote  grave,  inaccessible  to  a  busy  man. 
Of  the  sentiment  which  attracts  the  quick  to  what  is 
left  of  the  dead  he  had  no  understanding.  He  dared 
not  think  of  what  her  coffin  held,  except  to  regret  that 
the  dear  flesh  had  not  been  cremated,  and  the  ashes 
flung  to  the  sweet,  cleansing  winds. 

He  paused  at  the  gate  where  Mary  had  stood  a 
thousand  times  awaiting  his  return  with  a  welcoming 
smile.  They  had  painted  it  together  in  the  hope  of 
saving  a  few  pennies;  and  Mary  had  insisted  upon  the 
best  paint.  It  would  have  been  cheaper  in  the  end  to 
have  employed  a  mechanic,  for  Mary  had  spoiled  a 
gown,  and  he  had  upset  his  pot  of  paint. 

Above  the  gate  was  a  sign:  "To  let." 

David  pushed  open  the  gate,  glanced  at  the  front 
garden,  which,  being  exposed  to  the  public  view, 


200  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

was  kept  in  tolerable  order,  and  then,  skirting  the 
cottage,  entered  the  small  plot  behind  the  house.  Alas ! 
a  wilderness  of  weeds  brought  tears  to  his  heart  and 
eyes.  Not  a  sign  of  narcissus  or  hyacinth  or  tulip 
could  be  seen.  David  had  paid  for  the  bulbs  by  doing 
without  tobacco  for  six  months;  and  after  this 
tremendous  act  of  self-denial  the  hyacinths  had  not 
come  up.  Rats  consumed  them!  Mary  laughed 
because  she  was  so  afraid  of  crying,  tears  being  bad  for 
tender  plants.  The  purchase  of  an  expensive  rat- 
trap  brought  about  the  capture  of  one  rat,  who  looked 
so  sleek  and  guileless  that  Mary  allowed  it  to  escape. 
Such  trifles  turn  memory  into  a  playground  or  a  torture- 
chamber.  David  wandered  round  the  plot.  Of  the 
beloved  roses  only  briars  remained.  David  could 
remember  the  names  of  the  roses,  and  the  exact  spot 
where  each  had  bloomed.  The  ditch  was  once  more 
filled  with  docks  and  nettles,  although  here  and  there 
a  forget-me-not  still  struggled  for  existence.  The 
gnarled,  twisted,  weather-beaten  apple  trees  remained: 
the  bare  bones  that  Mary  had  arrayed  so  gloriously. 

David  flung  himself  down  in  the  grass. 

Lying  there,  he  heard  Big  Tom  strike  the  hour. 
The  vast  bell  had  been  recast  twice,  but  its  note  re- 
mained sweet  after  its  purification  by  fire.  He  had 
listened  to  that  bell  for  more  than  twenty  happy  years. 

He  tried  to  analyze  this  period  of  happiness,  to  place 
his  finger  upon  this  or  that  determining  cause.  At 
the  club,  speaking  of  his  boyhood  to  men  who  had 
hunted  and  shot  and  travelled,  the  remark  had  been 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  201 

frequent:  "I  say,  Archdale,  you  must  have  had  a  devil- 
ish dull  time  of  it.  Eh — what?"  But  he  had  not 
been  dull.  The  simplest  pleasures  had  sufficed  him. 

Why? 

The  boy  might  have  answered  the  question:  the 
man  groped  as  one  partially  blind  stretches  out  tentative 
fingers,  knowing  that  what  he  seeks  is  within  reach 
but  hidden  from  him. 

Could  such  simple  happiness  be  resurrected  ? 

He  recalled  some  lines  of  Longfellow  which,  long 
ago,  Mary  had  repeated  to  him: 

"  Not  in  the  clamour  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat." 

He  told  himself  that  he  might  have  been  happy  if 
Mary  had  come  back  with  the  assurance,  however  faint, 
of  a  life  beyond.  Pignerol  was  happy  in  his  fool's 
paradise,  because  he  believed  firmly  that  his  wife 
remained  near  him.  He  planted  out  that  absurd 
star  —  which  disfigured  the  lawn  —  because  he  was 
certain  that  it  pleased  Madame  Pignerol!  Wasn't 
this  fancy  running  riot,  barking  at  common  sense  and 
common  experience  ? 

Presently,  he  picked  a  few  forget-me-nots,  and  went 
his  way,  with  one  glance  backward  at  the  windows 
of  the  cottage  now  shuttered  and  barred:  dead  eyes 
in  a  dead  house.  Upon  it,  and  the  garden,  and  his 
own  heart,  was  inscribed  the  saddest  of  all  words:  — 
Ichabod. 


202  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

After  dinner,  alone  with  Fermor,  he  mentioned  for 
the  first  time  that  Mollie  was  under  Mrs.  Stormont's 
wing.  Till  this  moment  no  one  had  or  could  have 
suspected  the  poignancy  of  his  feelings,  which  he  had 
hidden  beneath  an  assumed  gaiety.  At  the  club, 
David  said,  "  My  little  girl  is  going  to  be  polished 
up  by  Mrs.  Stormont,"  and  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry 
replied,  "The  best  woman  in  London  to  do  it." 

"Mollie  has  left  you,"  said  Fermor;  "for  how  long  ?" 

"I  suppose  for  a  year.  Mrs.  Stormont  will  present 
her  and  take  her  about." 

"That  worldly  old  woman!" 

"It's  most  awfully  good  of  her." 

"Is  it  going  to  be  awfully  good  for  little  Mollie  ?" 

An   awkward   silence   followed. 

"Did  she  want  to  go?"  asked  Fermor. 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  want  her  to  go?" 

"I  wanted  her  to  go,  if  she  wanted  to  go." 

"David,  surely  you  can  be  candid  with  me.  This 
news  distresses  me  as  much  as  it  astounds.  Mary's 
daughter  with  Mrs.  Stormont!  Mary's  daughter  in 
training  for  a  fashionable  marriage!  Mary's  daughter 
taken  away  from  her  own  father,  and  hawked  about 
Mayfair." 

Fermor  let  himself  go  so  seldom  that  his  words, 
when  he  did  speak  with  authority,  became  impressive. 
Instantly,  they  fired  David.  He  jumped  from  his 
chair,  pale  and  excited,  trembling  with  suppressed 
passion. 


DAVID  ASKS   QUESTIONS  203 

"I  didn't  want  her  to  go.  I  could  have  sworn  that 
she  would  have  refused  to  go.  I  boasted  of  it  to  Mrs. 
Stormont.  I  dared  her  to  tempt  the  child.  Heavens ! 
She  needed  no  tempting.  She  jumped  at  the  chance. 
Father,  it  nearly  broke  my  heart,  but  I  have  some 
pride.  I  let  her  go  —  without  a  word.  If  she  hankers 
after  what  Mrs.  Stormont  can  give  her,  let  her  have  it." 

"No,"  said  Fermor  sternly. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  Think  what  you  like  of  me, 
call  me  a  fool,  a  sentimental  idiot,  but  believe  that  I 
loved  that  child,  and  —  curse  it  —  she  flies  off  at  the 
first  whistle.  And  mind  you,  that  clever  old  woman 
bombarded  me  with  shattering  truths.  She  accused 
me  of  filling  my  house  with  the  wrong  people,  with 
bounders  and  Bohemians.  But  I  swear  I  meant  to 
clear  'em  out." 

"Why  did  you  let  them  in  ?" 

"Ah!    Why?" 

David  walked  to  the  fireplace.  Fermor,  gazing  at 
him  with  softening  eyes,  saw  once  more  the  impulsive, 
generous  boy  whom  he  had  loved  so  tenderly,  and  who 
had  left  him  when  the  world  whistled.  And  now, 
David  in  his  turn  was  pierced  by  the  same  barbed 
shaft. 

"My  poor  boy,  I  know  exactly  how  you  feel." 

David  turned.  His  perceptions,  as  a  child,  had 
been  extraordinarily  acute,  although  Mary's  death 
seemed  to  have  dulled  them. 

"Father,  were  you  very  sore  when  I  left  you  ?" 

"Not  when  you  went  to  Mary;  I  wished  that  above 


204  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

all  things.  But  when  you  ceased  to  give  me  your 
confidence,  when  you  went  away  in  that  sense  —  I  was 
—  very  —  sore." 

He  spoke  reluctantly,  as  if  the  truth  were  dragged 
from  him,  but,  so  speaking,  he  smiled  with  a  kindly 
but  ironic  sense  of  a  situation  more  eloquent  than 
any  words.  For  he  saw  that  the  scales  had  not  yet 
fallen  from  David's  eyes,  although  his  vision  was  less 
blurred. 

"Let  us  talk  it  out,"  said  David. 

The  phrase  evoked  pleasant  memories.  In  the  good 
old  days,  man  and  boy  had  talked  out  most  things. 
By  the  fender  stood  the  armchair  in  which  Fermor 
sat  and  smoked.  In  a  corner  was  David's  stool  long 
unused.  David  fetched  it,  placed  it  near  the  arm- 
chair, and  laughed. 

"Let  us  talk  it  out,"  he  repeated. 

"Is  there  anything  more  to  say?"  Fermor  inquired. 

"Everything  I've  bottled  up  for  nearly  ten  years." 

Again  the  boy  was  speaking,  using  a  boy's  words 
in  the  deep  tones  of  a  man.  Familiar  gestures,  delicate 
inflections,  the  poise  of  the  fine  head,  served  to  remind 
Fermor  that  the  youth  in  David  was  still  alive  and 
less  changed  than  he  had  feared. 

"  I  am  dazed,"  said  David.  "  I  have  lost  my  bearings, 
Listening  to  the  opinions  and  judgments  of  other 
men,  my  own  seem  to  have  vanished.  The  Professor 
made  me  squirm  this  afternoon,  as  he  used  to  do  when 
he  caught  me  assuming  knowledge  of  a  subject  upon 
which  I  was  really  ignorant.  He  looked  at  me  as  if 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  205 

he  knew  that  I  did  not  know  myself.  Of  course, 
if  he's  right,  or  half  right,  in  his  amazing  ideas,  why, 
then  I'm  all  wrong.  Mary  once  said  that  people 
travelled  to  the  truth  along  different  roads.  She  said, 
I  remember,  that  you  and  the  dear  old  Vicar  and  the 
Professor  were  approaching  a  common  centre  from 
opposite  points." 

"We  were  seeking  a  common  centre/'  said  Fermor. 

From  his  higher  chair  he  looked  down  upon  David. 
The  face  was  still  young  and  handsome,  but  on  it  was 
printed  the  story  of  the  past  ten  years.  Time  takes 
what  is  in  a  man's  heart  and  writes  it,  indelibly,  upon 
his  countenance. 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  I've  been  seeking,  but 
I  do  know  what  I've  found:  disappointment,  bitterness, 
boredom.  By  Jove,  I'm  like  the  Professor's  elm. 
Everybody  thinks  me  a  splendid  tree,  but  my  roots 
are  contemptible.  Perhaps  in  a  different  soil  —  Or 
if  I  chopped  off  my  own  swollen  head " 

Fermor  filled  his  pipe,  waiting  and  wondering. 
Presently  David  continued: 

"If  I  had  chosen  different  friends—  Well,"  he 
laughed  drearily,  "there  was  a  reason  of  sorts  behind 
the  invitations  to  bounders.  Savages  drive  away 
devils  by  beating  tin  cans.  Perhaps  I  thought  that 
noise,  a  rowdy  crowd,  would  drive  out  my  blue  devils. 
And  they  were  kindly,  easy  folks  to  get  along  with 
but  now " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  should  like  to  be  alone  with  you  for  a  bit.     Let's 


206  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

go  abroad  in  my  car.  Fresh  air,  change  of  scene,  and 
your  companionship  will  clear  my  wits.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"I  should  like  it  of  all  things." 

"Really?" 

"The  invitation  is  as  welcome  as  the  dews  of  bte 


summer." 


"Just  you  and  I.  And  we'll  put  the  clock  back. 
I'll  pretend  that  I'm  a  kid  again,  and  you  shall  spank 
the  nonsense  out  of  me.  When  can  you  start?" 

"As  soon  as  you  are  ready." 

They  talked  together  for  a  couple  of  hours,  with 
a  map  of  France  spread  upon  a  table  between  them. 
Fermor,  an  enthusiast  upon  the  subject  of  Gothic 
architecture,  had  never  seen,  except  in  his  dreams,  the 
twin  spires  of  Chartres  Cathedral.  And  there  were 
ancient  organs  to  be  examined,  and  possibly  ancient 
scores  mouldering  away  in  worm-eaten  chests.  Fer- 
mor's  eyes  sparkled  when  he  spoke  of  these;  his  voice 
became  stronger. 

"How  keen  you  are!"  said  David.  "Why  did  you 
not  propose  this  trip  before  ?" 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  replied  Fermor,  simply. 
His  quiet  tones  held  an  attenuated  note  of  triumph, 
as  if,  all  along,  he  had  known  that  David  would  come 
back.  Before  he  went  to  bed,  he  unlocked  a  desk, 
and  drew  from  it  a  sheet  of  paper  upon  which  he  had 
scribbled  a  sonnet.  Not  for  the  world  would  he  have 
shown  his  verses  to  David  or  Pignerol  or  any  of  his 
friends.  He  read  them  now  with  a  pleasant  smile 


DAVID  ASKS  QUESTIONS  207 

upon  his  face,  with  an  expression  of  satisfaction, 
such  as  might  be  seen  upon  the  face  of  a  minor  prophet 
whose  tentative  predictions  have  been  verified  by 
kindly  Time.  The  sonnet  had  no  merit,  save  that 
of  setting  forth  an  affection  and  faith  which  had  never 
failed.  As  such,  it  is  printed  here: 

To  DAVID  ARCHDALE: 

To  me  thou  art  a  child  of  tricky  Spring 

Of  April,  rogue  of  months,  now  dark,  now  fair, 
Whose  sunbeams,  dancing  in  the  illusive  air, 
Flash  promise  of  the  gold  Time  may  not  bring. 

And  so,  dear  vagabond,  spread  wide  thy  wing 

While  April  smiles.     Glad  youth  must  leave  dull  care. 
Seek  honey-scented  meadows.     Frolic  there! 
Be  innocently  happy.     Taste  thy  fling. 

When  Spring  sends  tears  instead  of  laughter,  when 
Dark  cloud,  ar  rain,  or  snow,  or  hail  impend, 
When  fine,  fair-weather  folk  abandon  thee, 

Forlorn  and  sad,  David,  remember  then 

One  who  remains,  though  days  are  drear,  a  friend, 
Constant  while  life  shall  last.    Fly  home  to  mel 

Fermor  tore  the  sheet  of  paper  into  small  bits,  and 
flung  them  into  his  basket.  His  smooth  brow  was 
slightly  puckered  as  he  murmured  to  himself: 

"Has  David  comeback?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN   THE    MONTH    OF   MAY 

DAVID  and  Fermor  went  abroad  in  the  lusty 
month  of  May,  when  "all  herbs  and  trees 
renew  a  man."  The  migrant  birds  had 
invaded  England,  and  every  copse  was  a-flutter  with 
nest-builders  and  a-thrill  with  melody.  Upon  the  eve 
of  departure  David  dined  at  Stormont  Lodge.  He 
had  a  few  words  alone  with  his  hostess,  but  he  said 
nothing  —  out  of  consideration  for  her  feelings  —  which 
might  lead  her  to  believe  that  Mollie  would  be  called 
home  upon  his  return  from  France.  To  his  dismay, 
Mrs.  Stormont  spoke  confidently  of  an  early  marriage. 

"Henry  Middleton  is  paying  her  attention." 

"That  dull  fellow!" 

Middleton  was  a  famous  publicist  and  administrator. 

"  He's  one  of  the  best,  and  rich  beyond  the  dreams 
of  avarice.  And  there  are  others.  The  young  lady 
can  pick  and  choose.  You  can  take  my  word  for  it 
that  she  has  cleared  her  pretty  eyes  of  any  possible 
confusion  between  bounders  and  non-bounders.  I 
predict  triumphs.  The  little  baggage  is  as  ambitious 
as  her  father." 

David  replied  rather  violently: 

"I  want  her  to  marry  for  love." 

Mrs.  Stormont  smiled  discreetly.  She  had  not 

208 


IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY  209 

married  for  love,  but  she  reckoned  herself  none  the 
worse  for  that.  David  glanced  across  the  room  to 
a  sofa  whereon  Mollie  was  enthroned  with  three  men 
in  attendance. 

"She  can  hold  her  own,"  said  Mrs.  Stormont. 

David  stared  at  Mary's  child,  seeing  her  for  the  first 
time  with  critical  and  jealous  eyes.  She  sparkled; 
there  was  no  doubt  of  it.  He  heard  her  silvery  laughter, 
and  wondered  whether  it  rang  true.  For  so  young  a 
girl  she  seemed  amazingly  at  ease.  She  had  assumed 
a  freakish,  not  quite  natural  air. 

"Is  Middleton  here?"  he  asked. 

"David,  how  ignorant  you  are!  He's  making  a 
remarkable  speech  in  the  House." 

David  rose  to  take  his  leave.  He  had  hardly 
exchanged  half  a  dozen  phrases  with  Mollie,  but  as  he 
crossed  the  room  she  sprang  from  the  sofa  and  flitted 
up  to  him. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  We  must  have  a  tiny  talk  in  the 
hall."  She  slipped  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  laughed 
gaily.  But,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  she  said, 
poutingly,  "How  solemn  you  look!" 

David  wanted  to  ask  the  question  upon  his  tongue's 
tip:  "Have  you  missed  me?  Are  you  homesick?" 
Instead,  rather  stiffly,  he  muttered,  "  How  do  you  like 
this?"  and  waved  an  all-embracing  hand. 

"I'm  having  a  gorgeous  time.  Everybody  is  so 
kind.  The  Prime  Minister  was  here  yesterday,  and 
he  talked  to  me  seriously  as  if  I  were  a  woman,  which, 
of  course,  I  am." 


2io  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

The  sense  that  he  had  treated  her  as  a  child  too 
long  pierced  him,  but  he  pinched  her  cheek  and  said 
lightly,  "Don't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  escape  from 
childhood."  Then  he  added,  "  And  don't  be  a  moth!" 

"A  moth?" 

"Glare  and  glitter  seem  to  attract  you." 

She  replied  airily,  "They  do,"  but  he  perceived 
that  she  was  puzzled,  because  hitherto  he  had 
offered  everything  except  advice.  She  lifted  her 
head  and  kissed  him.  He  returned  her  kiss  with 
ardour. 

"I  wish  I  was  taking  my  Marionette  with  me." 

"It  would  be  great  fun." 

"It  might  be  more  than  that." 

"Daddy,  I  can't  make  you  out  to-night.  Why  are 
you  running  away  from  London  when  everything  is 
just  at  its  very  best  ?" 

"The  nightingale  is  singing  in  the  country." 

"And  Melba  at  Covent  Garden." 

"I  prefer  the  nightingale." 

Perhaps  at  that  moment  she  divined  that  all  was  not 
well  with  him,  for  she  squeezed  his  hand  and  her  voice 
was  very  soft  as  she  whispered:  "Do  you  hate  to 
leave  me  ?" 

"Isn't  it  going  to  be  the  other  way  about?  Mrs. 
Stormont  prepared  me  for  a  son-in-law." 

Mollie's  cheeks  were  a  warmer  pink  as  she  replied 
hastily:  "I  believe  you  are  jealous.  I  love  you,  Daddy; 
I  only  like  other  men." 

With  this  assurance  in  his  ears  he  went  away. 


IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY  211 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  Fermor  and  he  crossed  from 
Southampton  to  Havre.  David  appeared  to  be  in  high 
spirits  and  very  anxious  to  exploit  the  excellencies  of 
his  new  motor,  a  forty-power  car  of  the  best  French 
manufacture.  Freed  from  the  restrictions  of  the 
English  roads,  he  drove  fast  along  the  smooth  wide 
highways.  When  Fermor  suggested  less  speed,  David 
replied  that  he  was  outstripping  care.  And  for  the 
first  week  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  succeeded.  His 
pleasure  in  being  once  more  alone  with  his  oldest 
friend  delighted  Fermor.  They  lingered  in  Rouen  and 
Caen,  and  then  sped  south  to  Chartres.  Here  they 
spent  four  days  in  and  about  the  cathedral;  and  here, 
in  the  sacristy,  Fermor  discovered  a  Mass  of  Pales- 
trina's,  composed  during  the  most  brilliant  period  of 
the  composer's  life,  which  neither  David  nor  he  had 
ever  heard.  An  old  priest,  more  erudite  than  most 
of  his  fellows,  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity  of  discoursing 
upon  a  favourite  theme  to  two  English  musicians.  To 
him,  Palestrina  stood  for  an  archetype  of  the  supreme 
artist,  working  diligently  for  a  pitiful  wage,  a  prey  to 
domestic  afflictions,  and  yet  serenely  happy  in  his 
fidelity  to  the  great  gift  entrusted  to  him.  The  old 
priest  quoted  his  dying  words  concerning  work  con- 
ceived and  accomplished  "to  the  glory  of  the  Most 
High  God  and  for  the  worship  of  His  holy  temple/* 
And  then  David  was  reminded  of  something  which 
he  had  forgotten;  Palestrina's  series  of  motetti  to  words 
chosen  from  the  "Song  of  Solomon."  These  had  en- 
joyed a  tremendous  success,  and  had  passed  through  in- 


212  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

numerable  editions.  Fermor  recalled  the  incident  of 
Palestrina  carrying  this  alabaster  box  of  spikenard  and 
breaking  it  at  the  feet  of  his  master,  Gregory  XIII. 
The  old  priest  concluded  sorrowfully : 

"He  wrote  the  motetti,  Messieurs,  after  the  death 
of  his  wife,  Lucrezia,  whom  he  adored.  Perhaps  the 
love  that  he  had  for  her  was  poured  into  them.  Who 
knows  ? " 

This   incident  made   a   profound   impression   upon 
David.     He   could   talk   to   Fermor   of  nothing  else. 
Finally  he  said  in  a  constrained  voice:  '  'He    wrote 
his   'Solomon's    Garden*    after    his    wife's    death - 
-  If  we  were  directed  here " 

"We  may  have  been.  As  we  were  approach- 
ing Chartres,  as  those  two  spires  rose  out  of 
the  soft  haze,  I  said  to  myself,  'I  have  been  here 
before/" 

"How  and  when,  father?" 

"Perhaps  in  a  previous  existence." 

"The  professor  has  not  infected  you  with  that 
rubbish?" 

Fermor  winced  at  David's  contemptuous  tone,  but 
he  said  quietly:  "I  have  an  immense  respect  for 
Pignerol's  beliefs.  And  the  doctrine  of  reincarnation 
appeals  to  me  more  as  I  grow  older.  There  are 
arguments " 

"What  arguments,  worthy  of  the  name?" 

"Infant  prodigies.  Take  our  own  calling.  We 
know  the  difficulties  of  composition,  of  selection,  of 
execution.  But  many  children  leap  to  the  point  to 


IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY  213 

which  I   have  crawled.     Mozart,    for    instance,    and 


"I?" 

"  Most  assuredly." 

"You  think  that  I  have  lived  before,  that  my  music, 
which  has  come  to  me  easily,  is  the  outpouring  of 
previous  accumulations  ?" 

"It  is  thinkable  and  even  probable." 

"Shall  I  give  Palestrina  credit  for  'The  Peer  and  the 
Peri'?" 

"Ah,  David,  do  not  joke  about  that!" 

"Odd  that  he  should  have  chosen  the  Canticles. 
Well,  father,  this  visit  to  Chartres  has  settled  one  thing. 
I  mean  to  set  about  finishing  my  'Solomon's  Garden' 
as  soon  as  our  holiday  is  over.  And  I  shall  dedicate 
it  to  you." 

"My  dear  David!" 

"  You  have  always  been  my  Pope,  my  papa  beato" 

"This  makes  me  very  happy." 

"  Me  too,  if  you  are  really  pleased." 

"Gregory  could  not  have  been  more  pleased  than  I." 

A  silence  followed.  Fermor  was  too  moved  for 
speech;  David,  having  pledged  himself,  was  sensible 
of  a  reaction:  a  rigour  of  doubt  shook  him.  He  tried 
to  recall  the  motif  of  "Come,  My  Beloved,"  but,  to  his 
exasperation,  the  sugary  airs  of  his  musical  comedies 
buzzed  in  and  out  of  his  head,  to  the  complete  exclusion 
of  strains  more  austere.  He  touched  Fermor's  arm. 
They  were  walking  together,  after  dinner,  upon  the 
Orleans  road. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Do  you  remember  'Come,  my  Beloved'?" 

"I  should  think  so:  your  finest  bit  of  work." 

"It's  odd,  but  I  can't  recall  a  note  of  it." 

"I  could  write  down  every  bar." 

After  a  pause  David  said,  interrogatively:  "The 
plaster  which  hid  that  wonderful  work  in  the  old  Abbey 
Church  kept  it  fresh  and  fine,  didn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"If  I  dared  to  think  that  this  plaster  stuff  of  mine 
has  in  a  sense  preserved  'Solomon's  Garden.'1 

"Ah!" 

"You  are  doubtful  of  that.  All  the  same,  I  can 
bring  to  the  finishing  of  the  oratorio  an  experience 
of  life  which  ought  to  have  its  value,  eh  ?" 

Fermor  replied  rather  drily:  "Perhaps.     I  hope  so." 

"At  any  rate,  the  plaster  is  to  be  stripped  off.  I 
swear,  here  and  now,  by  the  ashes  of  Palestrina,  that 
I  won't  ring  again  the  tinkle-tinkle  bell." 

"Thank  God!" 

"  But  I  suppose  I  shall  be  condemned  to  go  on  hear- 
ing it  for  a  time.  It's  tinkling  now,  confound  it!" 

"When  we  return  to  Sherborne  you  shall  sit  in  the 
choir  and  stare  at  the  roof,  and  I'll  play  to  you  some 
of  Boyce's  anthems." 

"The  old  hunt  for  the  'heavenly  note.' : 

'"Come,  My  Beloved'  has  that." 

"Has  it?"  " 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Madame  Kirby-Lunn  must  sing  it.  There  is  a 
velvety  smoothness  about  her  voice  which  is  enchanting. 


IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY  215 

Do  you  know  that  I'm  beginning  to  feel  keener  than 
ever  ?  A  week  ago  I  was  only  half  alive." 

He  went  on  talking,  discussing  the  merits  of  the 
great  singers  and  instrumentalists,  and  saying  that  he 
would  write  a  solo  for  a  famous  harpist.  Fermor 
replied  in  monosyllables,  wondering  whether  the  dream 
of  a  lifetime  would  come  true. 

Presently,  they  turned,  and  in  the  moonlight  they 
saw  the  vast  cathedral,  twice  ravaged  by  fire,  and  yet 
to-day  the  finest  example  of  French  Gothic  art  at  its 
zenith :  an  incomparable  illustration  of  what  love  and 
faith  may  accomplish. 

"David,"  said  Fermor  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes?" 

"Human  hands  will  never  again  raise  such  a  house 
as  this,  so  nobly  planned,  so  perfect  in  its  proportion, 
so  exquisitely  wrought  in  all  its  details." 

"It  is  unlikely." 

"It  is  impossible.  It  represents  something  that  is 
immortal,  but  something  that  has  passed  away  from 
this  earth." 

"I  suppose  we  can  say  the  same  of  sculpture  and 
perhaps  painting." 

"  But  not  of  music." 

"You  believe  that?" 

"The  greatest  music  is  yet  to  be  written.  I  can 
imagine  a  heaven  wherein  music  is  the  universal 
language,  capable  of  expressing  whatever  there  be  of 
beauty  and  pleasure." 

"I  see  you  conducting  a  heavenly  choir." 


216  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"You  bring  me  back  to  earth.  David,  I  once 
hoped  that  you  would  write  the  greatest  music  this 
world  has  ever  heard." 

"Published  by  Lorimer!  Copyright  secured  in  the 
United  States?" 

"You  may  do  it  yet." 

"Urn,"  said  David.  Then  he  added:  "I  told  Mrs. 
Stormont  that  I  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  wrong 


tree." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DAVID    SEES   WITH   DETACHMENT 

THE  weather  was  perfect  when  they  took  the 
road,     early    upon    the    following    morning. 
Rain,  however,  had   fallen  during  the  night, 
more  than  necessary  to  lay  the  thick  white  dust,  and  the 
big  car,  travelling  through  a  flat  uninteresting  bit  of 
country  at  top  speed,  swerved  more  than  once  in  turning 
sharp  and  slippery  corners.     David  laughed. 

"Sit  tight,"  said  he.  "Nothing  like  pace  to  provoke 
an  appetite." 

They  breakfasted  at  an  old-fashioned  inn,  whose 
terrace  overlooked  the  Loire. 

"We  have  entered  the  garden  of  France,"  said 
David,  "le  pays  de  rire  et  de  rien  faire,  Rabelais's 
country." 

"No  Gothic  cathedrals  here,"  said  Fermor. 

"Nothing  really  superb.  The  farther  south  we  go 
the  farther  we  get  from  the  perfection  of  Rouen  and 
Caen  and  Chartres,  but  you  will  like  the  chateaux." 

Fermor  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"David,  I'm  sure  they'll  be  musical  comedy  to  me." 

"At  any  rate  we  are  going  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry.  Do  you  think  we  shall  have  the  pluck  to 
tackle  snails?  I  say,  what  fun  this  is!" 

"Yes,  yes  —  quite  enchanting." 

217 


2i8  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"That's  the  word.  The  Professor,  of  course, 
would  tell  us  that  the  spell  still  lingers.  The  Valois 
and  the  Bourbons  turned  this  into  a  paradise.  Their 
laughter  echoes  in  our  hearts." 

"One  cannot  quite  forget  the  Balafre,  and  Cardinal 
Balne's  cage  and  the  massacre  in  the  courtyard  at 
Amboise." 

"Father,  we  have  come  abroad  to  put  unpleasant 
thoughts  from  us.  We  won't  go  near  Amboise,  and 
we'll  keep  out  of  dungeons.  After  breakfast,  we'll 
find  a  meadow  full  of  hay,  and  go  fatly  to  sleep  on  a 
haycock.  Gar$on!  Another  pint  of  this  excellent 


wine." 


They  sipped  their  coffee  and  smoked  cigars,  while 
the  great  river  flowed  silently  by.  The  landscape  was 
suffused  with  golden  sunlight,  and  even  the  tremulous 
leaves  of  the  willows  hung  motionless  in  the  lulled  air, 
as  if  they  were  drowsily  awaiting  the  kiss  of  summer. 
Upon  the  river  one  could  see  where  the  current  swirled, 
and  its  surface,  although  placid,  was  actively  resolving 
the  prismatic  beams,  and  reflecting  with  indescribable 
delicacy  the  infinite  graduations  of  the  azure  sky. 
The  myriad  ripples  caused  by  a  passing  barge  held, 
each,  for  a  dazzling  instant,  the  image  of  the  sun,  and 
then  vanishing  slowly  were  absorbed  into  the  quiver 
ing  blue.  "I  could  finish  the  oratorio  here,"  said 
David.  "Why  shouldn't  you  and  Mollie  and  I  spend 
the  summer  near  Blois  ?" 

Without  waiting  for  Fermor's  answer  he  continued 
swiftly. 


DAVID  SEES  WITH  DETACHMENT     219 

"Is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  begin  life  again  when  he 
is  my  age  ?" 

At  the  end  of  the  terrace,  not  a  dozen  yards  distant, 
an  ancient  thorn,  gnarled,  weather-beaten,  warped 
to  one  side,  had  burst  into  full  blossom.  Its  whiteness 
and  its  fragrance  had  challenged  the  attention  of  the 
two  men,  as  they  sat  down  to  breakfast.  Fermor 
raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  it. 

"That  old  May-tree,"  he  said,  smiling,  "answers 
your  question  far  more  eloquently  than  an  old  man 
can  do." 

"What  a  miracle  it  is!"  David  inhaled  the  perfume. 
"Father,  somebody  has  said  that  peace  is  a  'lullaby 
word*  for  decay.  Is  that  true?" 

"Only  in  the  sense  of  a  peace  selfishly  deaf  to  every- 
thing which  disturbs  it." 

"Jove!  How  I  should  like  to  begin  again! 
Wouldn't  you?" 

"I  should  prefer  to  go  on  to  a  fuller  existence  else- 
where." 

'This  is  good  enough  for  me.     I  never  felt  better." 

"You  see,  I  am  seventy." 

"In  a  minute  the  talk  will  become  morbid.  Let  us 
find  our  hayfield." 

They  strolled  along  the  band  of  the  river,  till  they 
found  what  they  sought.  David  flung  himself  down, 
and  within  a  minute  was  fast  asleep.  Fermor  sat  by 
him,  gazing  at  his  face,  now  warm  with  colour  and 
smoothed  by  pleasant  dreams.  Much  of  the  delightful 
attractiveness  of  youth  lingered  upon  it,  and  especially 


220  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

the  possibilities  of  youth  ever  interesting  to  kindly 
age  whose  work  is  done. 

"Can  he  begin  again?"  thought  Fermor. 

Then,  almost  unconsciously,  he  prayed  that  it 
might  be  so. 

An  hour  afterward  they  were  on  their  way  to  Blois. 
David  had  just  said,  "How  well  she's  pulling,"  when 
suddenly  a  tire  burst  with  a  loud  explosion  and 
David  could  remember  nothing  more  except  an  appall- 
ing vision  of  a  granite  wall  racing  at  them ! 


BOOK  II 


"  God  is  law,  say  the  wise;  0  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 
Law  is  God,  say  some:  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in 

a  pool; 
And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man 

cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  —  were  it 

not  He?" 

TENNYSON. 

"Amid  the  mysteries  that  become  the  more  mysterious 
the  more  they  are  thought  about,  there  will  remain  the 
one  absolute  certainty,  that  we  are  ever  in  the  presence 
of  an  infinite  and  eternal  energy,  from  which  all  things 
proceed." 

HERBERT  SPENCER. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON   THE    OTHER   SIDE 

BY  WHAT  miracle  of  God's  mercy  had  he 
escaped  injury  ? 
This  was  the  first  question  that  David 
asked  himself  after  the  accident.  For  the  impact 
must  have  been  tremendous.  The  motor  was  running 
at  fifty  miles  an  hour  over  one  of  the  finest  roads  in 
France.  And  yet,  after  the  smash,  David  discovered 
himself  standing  upon  the  highway,  gazing  down 
upon  a  mass  of  splintered  wood  and  iron,  all  that 
was  left  of  his  magnificent  car.  He  was  sensible 
of  no  bodily  injury,  although  his  vision  seemed  to 
be  blurred,  as  if  the  optic  nerve  had  sustained  a 
shock.  The  landscape,  for  instance,  appeared  to 
have  lost  substance.  It  remained  clear,  too  clear,  like 
a  reflection  in  water.  This  luminosity  registered  itself 
with  precision. 

What  succeeded  effaced  it  for  the  time  being.  David 
remembered  that  Fermor  had  been  driving  with  him, 
and,  as  suddenly,  he  saw  huddled  up  against  the  wall 
what  seemed  to  be  a  mere  bundle  of  clothes.  David 
became  overwhelmingly  conscious  of  his  own  vitality, 
as  he  realized  that  his  life  had  been  spared,  while 
Fermor's  had  been  taken.  Horrorstruck,  he  hastened 
to  Fermor 's  side,  knelt  down,  called  him  by 

223 


224  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

name,  knowing  that  there  would  be,  could  be,  no 
answer. 

Fermor  was  dead.  Death  must  have  been  instanta- 
neous; for  the  head  was  terrifically  crushed,  the 
body  altogether  limp,  as  if  every  bone  in  it  had  been 
shattered. 

David  sank  to  the  ground,  sick  and  dizzy  with  horror. 
His  father  was  beyond  human  help,  annihilated.  And 
he,  David,  remained  uninjured,  unbruised,  sensible  only 
of  shock,  and  that  curious  luminosity  of  vision,  so  keen, 
so  penetrating  that  he  was  able  to  peer  beneath  a 
crushed  bundle  of  clothes,  and  behold  a  dear  body 
abominably  mangled. 

The  intense  thought  came :  Why  had  he  been  spared  ? 

The   answer   came   as   quickly. 

His  work  on  earth  was  not  yet  accomplished.  It 
had  been  ordained  that  he  should  finish  "Solomon's 
Garden."  For  the  past  month  this  ':ope  had  been 
rekindled  in  his  soul.  Now,  flame-like,  it  became 
a  blazing,  soaring  conviction.  The  future  presented 
itself  as  a  vast  snow-clad  mountain,  a  peak  such  as 
the  Matterhorn,  up  which  he  must  climb  and  climb, 
regardless  of  risk  to  limb  or  life,  till  he  stood  at  last 
triumphant  upon  the  glorious  summit. 

He  never  knew,  afterward,  how  long  he  remained 
thus,  half  kneeling  by  Fermor,  in  an  ecstasy  of  emotion 
and  sensibility. 

It  occurred  to  him  —  as  one  of  a  myriad  impressions 
so  vivid  and  yet  so  ephemeral  that  most  of  them  evaded 
analysis  —  that  he  might  be  in  a  sort  of  trance  in  which 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  225 

action,  temporarily,  was  paralyzed  and  feeling  inde- 
scribably heightened.  An  interruption,  the  advent 
of  strangers,  however  pitiful,  would  have  hurt  intoler- 
ably. He  was  alone  with  his  living  thoughts  which 
winged  their  way  swifter  than  swallows,  swooping 
from  past  to  future,  ascending  and  descending,  imbued 
with  a  restless  activity  which  fascinated  even  while  it 
bewildered.  They  refused  to  linger,  even  for  an  instant, 
upon  the  present,  upon  the  unspeakable  catastrophe 
which  had  just  taken  place. 

The  fitter  of  two  men  had  survived! 

With  this  deduction,  fortifying  it  immeasurably, 
came  the  memory  of  what  had  passed  between  Fermor 
and  himself  upon  that  same  day.  Fermor  had  admitted 
that  he  wished  to  "go  on."  David,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  experienced  a  convulsing  desire  to  "  begin  again/' 
And  if — as  Mary  had  maintained  so  often  —  desire 
in  any  form,  good  or  evil,  was  indeed  prayer,  why  then 
who  could  doubt  that  his  passionate  supplication  had 
been  heard  and  granted. 

The  world,  in  Maytime,  was  so  young. 

He  could  hear  a  lark  singing  overhead,  and  its  song 
was  a  psalm  of  life,  a  vital  message,  something  trans- 
latable. When  the  flute-like  notes  melted  away, 
other  sounds  captivated  David's  ears,  rising  and  falling 
in  cadence  with  his  thoughts.  The  grass  by  the  road- 
side, the  leaves  upon  the  trees,  the  flowers  of  the  field, 
seemed  to  echo  and  reecho  the  bird's  song.  The 
orchestration  of  it  held  David  enchanted.  He  told 
himself  not  only  that  he  lived,  but  that  life  had  become 


226  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

harmonious  and  intelligible  and  in  an  amazing  sense 
simple. 

The  reason  of  this  presented  itself. 

His  vision  had  been  cleared.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  saw  from  within  and  without. 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

The  road  stretched  straight  in  front  of  him,  but  a 
few  yards  away  there  was  a  curious  shadow,  a  black 
blot  upon  the  white  surface.  David  stared  at  it, 
glancing  from  right  to  left.  The  sun  shone  in  a  stain- 
less sky.  Between  it  and  the  shadow  there  was  nothing. 

David  remained,  for  a  moment,  thrilling  with  an 
uncanny  apprehension.  Then  he  advanced  a  step 
or  two  and  paused  again  —  horror-struck;  for  the 
shadow  transposed  itself  into  substance. 

It  was  a  man  lying  face  down  upon  the  road. 

At  once  he  leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  the  car,  when 
it  skidded,  must  have  struck  some  unfortunate  foot- 
passenger  standing  or  sitting  beside  the  granite  wall. 
But,  as  he  approached  the  body  something  familiar 
about  its  proportions  struck  an  icy  chill  to  his  heart. 

In  a  flash  he  apprehended  the  mystery. 

He,  David  Archdale,  had  not  escaped.  Or,  rather 
his  escape  was  stupendously  other  than  what  he  had 
deemed  it  to  be. 

Gazing  at  his  own  shattered  flesh,  David  realized 
a  sense  of  detachment,  unachievable.  For  instance, 
he  understood  why  the  landscape  had  become  unsub- 
stantial, like  one  of  Rowlandson's  prints  in  colour. 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  227 

And  with  this  conviction  of  the  unreality  of  things 
which  he  had  reckoned  most  real  —  such  as  stone 
walls  —  came  not  a  perception  but  rather  a  discern- 
ment (for  a  new  sense  seemed  to  have  sprung  into  being) 
of  a  force  holding  him  to  earth,  in  defiance  of  a  power 
essentially  different  which  allured  him  upward.  He 
asked  himself:  Was  he,  a  spirit,  still  subject  to  the  laws 
of  gravitation  ?  The  question  was  answered  later.  David 
passed  swiftly  from  its  consideration,  for  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  a  spirit  expelled  other  speculations  and 
permeated  his  being  with  a  vivid  and  vital  pleasure. 
We  know  that  in  his  earth-life  he  had  not  been  sure 
of  existence  after  death.  He  had  envied,  inordinately, 
those  whose  faith  had  been  stronger  than  his  own. 
And  always,  he  had  felt  gropingly  that  life  must  be 
immortal  and  probably  Protean,  and  that  the  soul, 
would  remain  an  individuality. 

Now  he  knew. 

With  this  knowledge  was  included  other  realizations, 
such  as  the  irrelevance  of  Time  and  Space,  now  no 
more  to  be  measured  with  watch  and  rule  than  the 
cardinal  virtues.  He  divined  that  he  was  free  to  leave 
the  spot  whereon  he  stood,  or  to  remain.  For  the 
moment  he  chose  to  remain. 

But  soon  a  terrible  loneliness  began  to  oppress 
him.  What  had  become  of  Fermor  ?  Why  was  his 
spirit  invisible  ?  Taking  for  granted  that  Fermor,  like 
himself  was  conscious  of  a  superlative  vitality,  of  a 
renascence  absolutely  sublime,  it  seemed  exasperating 
that  they  could  not  at  least  exchange  congratulations. 


228  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

He  called  Fermor  by  name  —  and  looked  up. 

Till  this  moment  his  attention  had  been  concentrated 
upon  the  shattered  car,  the  two  bodies  lying  upon  the 
road,  and  the  familiar  yet  strangely  unfamiliar  land- 
scape. 

As  soon  as  he  looked  up,  he  became  more  conscious 
of  the  power  holding  him  to  earth.  And,  whereas 
he  could  see  with  penetrating  clarity  everything  upon 
the  earth-plane,  his  vision  in  regard  to  the  planes 
above  was  blurred.  He  gazed  into  obscuring 
mists.  Nevertheless,  gazing  upward  and  yearning 
with  all  his  strength  to  pierce  the  veil,  he  became  aware 
of  a  spiritual  quickening,  and  an  odd  sublimation  of 
the  senses,  which  seemed  to  be  merged  into  one  sense. 
Although  it  will  be  necessary  to  speak  hereafter  of  David 
using  the  senses  familiar  to  us,  he  himself  apprehended 
that  speech,  as  mortals  conceive  it,  had  ceased.  Com- 
munication, in  fine,  became  telepathic.  And  he  dis- 
covered later  that  hearing,  feeling,  taste  and  smell 
were  exercised  by  virtue  of  the  will.  It  was  the  will, 
not  his  vocal  chords,  which  summoned  Fermor. 

In  a  passion  of  importunity,  he  besought  his  father 
to  come  to  him. 

"I  am  here."     David  knew  that  Fermor  was  close. 

Presently  he  heard  Fermor's  voice,  curiously  clear 
and  sweet;  but  to  his  profound  distress  he  could  not 
see  him. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Fermor. 

"But  I  do  not  see  you.     Can  you  see  me?" 

"Yes." 


ON  THE  OTHER   SIDE  229 

"Is  Mary  with  you?" 

"Dear  David,  she  would  come  if  it  were  possible." 

"You  have  seen  her?"  His  voice  thrilled  with 
jealous  agony. 

"I  have.  Mary  cannot  come  to  you,  but  you  may 
go  to  her." 

"When  and  how?" 

"In  the  fulness  of  time.  She  told  me  to  remind  you 
of  what  you  had  written  upon  the  inside  of  her  wedding- 
ring." 

"I  wrote  'For  ever  and  ever.'  Does  she  mean  that 
she  is  mine  eternally?" 

"Or  that  you  are  hers." 

"I  understand."  He  added  bitterly:  "The  greater 
does  not  repudiate  the  less  ?" 

"Never." 

"Isn't  it  amazing  that  we  should  be  here  at  all." 

"It  would  be  amazing  if  we  weren't.  David,  my 
dear  son,  I  must  leave  you.  It  is  the  Law,  the  same 
law  which  tears  apart  human  creatures  on  earth." 

"Father,  you  forsake  me?" 

The  calm,  grave  voice  seemed  to  be  that  of  a 
pitying  judge,  as  it  replied:  "What  held  you  to  earth 
still  holds  you,  and  must  hold  you." 

"Don't  go  yet!" 

There  was  no  answer 

Later,  two  peasants  approached,  heralded  by  the 
tinkling  bells  upon  the  horses  which  drew  a  farm  cart. 
David  watched  their  stolid  faces  quicken  from  indiffer- 


230  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ence  into  interest,  from  interest  to  excitement,  from 
excitement  to  terror.  They  were  clowns  of  the  field, 
such  as  Millet  painted,  but  in  the  presence  of  death  they 
behaved  with  dignity  and  distinction.  David's  pocket- 
book,  full  of  banknotes,  had  fallen  from  his  coat. 
One  of  the  men  replaced  it  without  opening  it.  The 
bodies  were  lifted  tenderly  into  the  cart,  and  covered 
with  a  cloth. 

David  followed. 

Passing  a  Calvary,  on  their  way  to  Blois,  the  men 
removed  their  hats,  and  kneeling  upon  the  rough 
stone  steps  prayed  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  the 
dead.  David  could  read  their  simple  hearts  more 
easily  than  he  could  read  his  own.  He  saw  clearly  their 
strength  and  their  weakness,  and  could  balance  the 
good  and  evil  in  each.  He  was  astonished  to  discover  in 
these  rough  fellows,  whom,  but  a  short  time  since,  he 
would  have  regarded  as  little  higher  in  intelligence  than 
the  big  horses  they  drove,  minds  free  from  care  as  those 
of  children,  and  a  simple  faith  which  redeemed  the 
too  gross  flesh.  The  man  who  had  replaced  the  pocket- 
book  lingered  longer  upon  his  knees.  He  was  thanking 
his  patron  saint  inasmuch  as  he  had  resisted  the  over- 
whelming temptation  to  examine  the  pocketbook  and 
take  from  it  a  small  sum  sufficient  to  defray  some 
very  pressing  need. 

"This  is  a  better  fellow  than  I,"  thought  David. 

The  peasants  had  decided  to  take  the  bodies  to  the 
hospital  at  Blois,  where  the  authorities  would  com- 
pensate them  for  their  time  and  trouble.  Obviously, 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  231 

David's  magnificent  body  impressed  them.  They 
discussed  him  stolidly,  as  if  he  were  a  vast  joint  awaiting 
hungry  imaginations.  One  of  the  two  said,  with 
humour: 

"He  has  had  plenty  of  fine  weather,  this  one." 

And  David  asked  himself  if  it  were  true.  His  own 
world  would  repeat  with  variations  the  peasant's 
remark;  at  the  Buskin,  after  luncheon,  when  members 
gathered  together,  it  would  be  said  that  Archdale  had 
been  highly  favoured.  Harrington,  the  painter,  would 
exclaim  in  his  genial  voice:  "Yes,  yes,  a  fine  innings," 
and  old  Wrest,  belonging  to  the  generation  that  en- 
couraged puns,  would  twist  his  grizzled  moustache,  and 
add:  "He  made  some  remarkable  scores!"  There 
would  be  long  obituary  notices  in  the  papers  concerning 
the  most  popular  composer  of  the  day,  and  perhaps  one 
paragraph  in  the  Dorchester  Chronicle  about  Fermor. 

And  yet,  Fermor  had  soared  upward  leaving  him 
fettered  to  earth. 

Able  to  move  horizontally  wherever  he  pleased, 
David  chose  to  return  to  England.  As  he  travelled, 
he  met  and  passed  many  spirit  forms  who  seemed 
to  regard  him  with  indifference.  They  were  alike 
not  only  in  form,  but  in  mentality.  Without  speech, 
David  became  aware  that  they  thought  and  suffered 
as  he  did.  He  noticed  also  other  spirit  forms,  so 
shadowy  as  at  first  to  be  imperceptible.  There  were 
myriads  of  these  hovering  about  all  human  habitations. 
And  they  passed  in  and  out  of  living  bodies.  David 
perceived  that  they  were  thought- forms;  and  they 


232  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

took  shape  as  he  studied  them,  some  being  sweet  and 
fair  and  others  grotesquely  monstrous.  He  saw  also 
that  certain  persons,  and  in  particular  very  young 
children,  appeared  to  be  automatically  receptive  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  these  thought-forms,  and  that 
other  men  and  women  were  as  automatically  receptive 
of  the  monstrous  and  unclean.  The  comedy  and 
tragedy  of  terrestrial  life  spread  itself  before  his  gaze, 
leaving  nothing  to  the  imagination  and  arousing  in 
David's  mind  a  tremendous  sensibility  to  the  unmis- 
takable difference  between  good  and  evil.  With  the 
laying  aside  of  the  flesh,  there  had  come  a  crystalline 
perception  of  what  artists  call  "values."  For  the 
first  time  he  saw  things  and  people  not  in  perspective, 
but  in  isometrical  projection. 

Presently  a  spirit,  taller  and  more  imposing  than 
the  others,  addressed  him  by  name. 

"You  know  me?"  David  demanded. 

"I  was  present  at  the  first  performance  of  'The 
Peer  and  the  Peri.'  Also  you  attended  my  funeral." 

"Yes,"  said  David. 

He  recognised  a  famous  soldier  to  whom  a  grateful 
country  had  paid  high  honour. 

"You  have  only  just  crossed  over." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  David  asked. 

The  tall  spirit  smiled  with  an  expression  derisive 
and  inexpressibly  sad. 

"Forgive  me,  but  there  is  an  unmistakable  odour 
of  earth  about  new-comers.  You  will  soon  lose  it. 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  233 

Are  you  thinking  of  attending  your  own  funeral?  I 
say  —  don't." 

"Why?" 

"You  will  hear  what  your  friends  say  about  you." 

"Handsome  things  were  said  of  you." 

"Fulsome!  And  now,  when  one  sees  clearly,  when 
one  knows  - 

"What  do  we  here?" 

"Whatever  we  like." 

"Within  limits?" 

"Without  limits.     That  is  the  tragedy  of  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"You  will  soon  find  out." 

As  he  spoke,  his  smile  seemed  to  David  the  most 
dreary  and  tragic  he  had  ever  beheld.  The  soldier 
continued  in  the  same  impassive,  indifferent  tone: 

"There  are  no  restrictions  and  oblivions.  If  it 
pleases  you  to  write  more  musical  comedies  - 

"Never  again!"  said  David  grimly. 

"  Or  to  listen  to  your  own  compositions.  Your  best 
work  ought  to  interest  you,  Archdale." 

"It  would,  if  I  had  produced  it."  He  thought  of 
"Solomon's  Garden." 

"So  would  mine,  if  I  had  done  it.  We  meet  our 
lost  opportunities  and  they  gibber  at  us." 

"Is  there  no  way  out?" 

"  I  have  found  none  —  and  yet. 

"Yes?" 

"  There  are  moments  when  the  earth  power  seems  to 
slacken — we  are  drawn  up  and  then  pulled  back  again." 


234  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

As  he  spoke  he  vanished.  David  heard  the  at- 
tenuated echo  of  a  mocking  laugh,  which  aroused  in 
him  an  uncanny  curiosity  and  an  unutterable  mourn- 
fulness. 

Not  long  afterward  he  was  confronted  by  another 
shadow,  the  wraith  of  a  woman  he  had  known  intimate- 
ly. He  remembered  how  much  her  death  had  affected 
him,  because  she  loved  life  so  intensely.  To  the  last  she 
had  struggled  against  an  incurable  malady,  entreating 
the  doctors  to  save  her,  to  extend  the  lease  of  pleasure 
and  excitement.  Up  to  a  certain  age  high  health  had 
been  hers,  and  an  immeasurable  capacity  for  enjoy- 
ment. David  knew  how  loathsome  disease  had  been 
to  her;  how  she  resented  it  in  others;  how  she  quailed 
when  she  was  attacked  by  it. 

"You?" 

The  clear  voice,  with  its  subtile  and  penetrating 
inflections,  had  not  changed. 

"Yes  — I." 

"  But  I  reckoned  you  one  of  the  finer  spirits." 

"Just  clay" 

"How  odd  to  meet  you  here!" 

David  divined  mystery.  Very  tentatively,  remem- 
bering that  the  soldier  had  refused  to  answer  the  same 
question,  he  said: 

"How  do  you  pass  the  time?" 

"There  are  distractions  even  for  us.  You  will  find 
out.  Why  haven't  you  found  out  ?" 

"I  have  just  crossed  over." 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  235 

"Of  course.  Well-  -"  She  hesitated.  And  im- 
mediately he  became  aware  of  a  desire  on  her  part 
to  help  him,  perhaps  to  warn  him.  At  the  same 
moment  a  certain  awe  and  distress  assailed  him,  a 
premonition  of  danger  and  suffering. 

"  You  were  about  to  tell  me  something  ?" 

Then  she  laughed,  and  her  laugh  was  the  same  as 
the  soldier's,  as  poignant  and  as  uncanny. 

"  Do  you  remember  my  theory  that  on  earth  we  got 
What  we  wanted  if  we  wanted  it  badly  enough  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  used  to  say  that  the  earth  was  quite  good  enough 
for  me.  I  died  protesting  against  the  power  which 
tore  me  from  it.  That  is  why  I  am  here  now." 

"You  won't  tell  me  what  to  do  ?" 

"I  would  sooner  that  others  told  you.  My  sense 
of  shame  is  not  quite  extinct." 

"Others!     What  others?" 

She  laughed  again,  and  he  realised  that  in  a 
moment  she  too  would  vanish.  Accordingly  he  said 
hurriedly,  "Don't  leave  me!  Surely  misery  loves 
company." 

"Not  here.     Not  in  the  sense  you  mean.     And" 
her  voice  seemed  to  sink  to  a  whisper  —  "  if  you  knew 
what  I  do  now,  how  I  pass  the  time,  you  would  wish 
to  leave  me.     Farewell,  my  friend;  pray  that  we  may 
not  meet  again." 

She  floated  from  him,  leaving  him  with  a  sense  of 
desolation  and  horror  so  acute  that  he  made  no  effort 
to  detain  her. 


236  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

David  approached  London.  The  great  city  had  en- 
ticed him  as  a  flesh  and  blood  entity,  and — oddly  enough 
—  it  allured  him  still.  He  was  sensible  of  a  quickening 
of  pulses,  of  a  vibration  strange  but  not  unpleasant. 
The  roar  of  the  traffic,  the  hurrying  crowds,  the  colour 
and  movement  excited  him.  He  longed  to  mix  with 
the  quick,  to  share  once  more  their  ambitions  and 
desires.  The  longing  became  so  overmastering  that 
he  entered  his  club,  pausing  as  usual  to  ask  for  his 
letters,  and  surprised  that  the  old  hall-porter  did  not 
bustle  out  of  his  box  to  greet  him. 

He  ascended  the  marble  steps,  and  walked  into  the 
smoking-room. 

Once  more  the  familiar  talk  fell  upon  his  ears,  the 
everlasting  gossip  about  men  and  women  he  knew, 
the  futile  and  often  fatuous  criticism,  the  "log-rolling," 
the  anecdotes,  and  the  inexhaustible  speculation  as 
to  whether  Tom  or  Dick  would  "get  there/'  And  the 
"there"  seemed  a  pin's  point  upon  the  surface  of  the 
planet,  and  the  "here,"  where  David  found  himself, 
the  whole  universe. 

Old  Wrest  sat  in  his  armchair,  sipping  his  coffee, 
and  alternately  smoking  and  biting  his  cigar.  David 
could  hear  his  words  and  read  his  thoughts.  And  a 
careful  inspection  of  the  inside  of  Wrest' s  mind  was  not 
unlike  a  leisurely  walk  through  a  well-swept  and 
garnished  public  library.  Wrest's  knowledge  of 
literature  was  encyclopaedic,  but  he  knew  little  of  men 
and  almost  nothing  concerning  women.  During  a 
long  life  he  had  sought  for  and  found  the  finest  thoughts 


ON  THE  OTHER   SIDE  237 

of  others;  he  had  become  an  asylum  for  them.  David 
could  see  their  shadowy  forms  coming  and  going, 
although,  for  the  most  part,  they  seemed  content  to 
remain  passively  where  they  were,  particularly  the 
mid-Victorian  ideas,  who  had  survived  their  usefulness, 
and  were  entitled,  so  to  speak,  to  lie  quietly  upon  the 
shelf,  permitting  themselves  to  be  taken  out  occasionally 
for  an  airing. 

Not  far  from  Wrest  sat  Thelluson,  his  illustrious 
rival.  If  it  might  be  said  that  Wrest  knew  everything 
—  and  even  Thelluson  admitted  that  -  -  Thelluson, 
with  equal  truth,  might  claim  to  know  everybody. 
He  had  become  a  National  Portrait  Gallery.  The 
methods  of  the  two  famous  critics  were  not  antithetical 
but  different.  Thelluson  concerned  himself  with  per- 
sons —  actors,  authors  and  dramatists  —  while  Wrest, 
with  an  ironic  contempt  for  flesh  and  blood,  concen- 
trated his  mind  upon  ideas,  especially  those  which 
had  escaped  the  notice  of  the  author  whose  work  he 
happened  to  be  reviewing. 

David  was  surprised  to  find  that  Thelluson  was  a 
much  better  fellow,  kinder,  sweeter  at  core,  more 
generous,  than  he  had  deemed  him.  To  both  men, 
the  creative  gift  had  been  denied,  to  both  life 
had  been  a  struggle,  and  each  had  "arrived"  after 
indefatigable  work,  the  patient,  self-denying  effort 
of  laborious  nights  and  days.  This,  then  (so  David 
clearly  perceived),  had  been  the  secret  of  their 
influence  and  power  in  the  particular  world  they 
dominated  and  instructed.  A  fine  humanity  informed 


238  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Thelluson,  an  ultra-refined  intellectuality  permeated 
Wrest. 

It  was  well  with  these  veterans,  who  had  mixed 
so  freely  with  their  fellows.  They  had  been  in  the 
world  always,  supremely  interested  in  that  world's 
facts  and  fancies,  but  each,  after  his  own  fashion, 
striving  to  raise  the  standard  of  his  generation,  and 
sensible  that  his  work,  however  ephemeral  in  its  out- 
ward expression,  had  not  been  altogether  in  vain. 

Far  otherwise  was  the  case  of  a  man  moodily  listening 
to  Wrest's  remarks  about  a  play  freshly  imported 
from  America.  Henry  Newsom  was  the  son  of  that 
once  omnipotent  iconoclast,  whose  works  will  never 
more  be  read.  Henry  the  Second,  as  he  had  been 
called  at  Oxford,  was  a  writer  of  fiction,  his  father 
having  disposed  very  uncomfortably  of  most  facts, 
including  a  belief  in  life  after  death.  The  late  Master 
of  Balliol,  and  many  minor  prophets,  had  prophesied 
glory  and  honour  for  the  iconoclast's  son.  He  had 
come  to  London  covered  with  the  pulverem  01  ym pi  cum 
of  Schools.  But  a  "double-first"  at  Oxford  may 
find  himself  a  person  of  no  importance  in  Paternoster 
Row.  Wrest  contended  that  Newsom,  now  a  man 
of  thirty-five,  had  never  "found  himself."  That 
accounted  for  everything.  He  had  discovered  a  fic- 
titious Newsom,  a  composite  photograph  of  a  dozen 
great  men,  to  whom,  each  in  turn,  he  had  played  "the 
sedulous  ape."  His  best  work  was  the  second-best  of 
Hawthorne,  Thackeray,  Flaubert  and  Loti.  Wrest's 
word,  "a  salad,"  had  damned  his  first  novel.  His 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  239 

latest  book  had  been  received  with  the  usual  comment, 
that  once  more  the  talented  author  had  "just  missed 


it." 


David  peered  curiously  into  Newsom's  mind,  and 
shuddered.  The  poor  fellow  was  possessed  by  demons 
of  jealousy,  who  ravaged  him  unceasingly,  tearing  at 
his  entrails !  He  came  seldom  to  the  Buskin,  preferring 
a  smaller  club,  where  his  roar  was  rarely  challenged. 
He  said  that  the  sight  of  men  like  Harrington  and 
Archdale  made  him  sick,  and  stigmatized  them  as 
charlatans  and  self-advertisers.  Metaphorically,  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth  when  indiscreet  persons  prattled 
of  Mr.  Hall  Caine  and  Miss  Corelli.  If  style  was 
the  man,  what  in  Reason's  name  were  they  ? 

David  had  always  believed  that  Newsom  was 
sincere,  and  that  his  comparative  failure  as  a  writer 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  man  was  superior,  blessed 
(or  cursed)  with  a  mind  too  fine  and  too  hypersensitized 
to  be  appreciated  by  the  subscribers  to  Mudie's  and 
Smith's.  Now,  he  saw  with  horror  a  poseur,  poisoned 
by  envy,  a  helpless  prey  to  the  miserable,  mean,  Comus- 
rout  crew  of  myriad  unsatisfied  aspirations,  which  tor- 
mented him  as  they  have  tormented  millions  since  the 
world  began.  Newsom  had  a  charming  wife,  delightful 
children,  and  an  income  sufficient  for  his  needs,  but 
these  blessings  were  as  snowflakes  beneath  the  blazing, 
red-hot  conviction  that  he  would  never  be  acclaimed 
as  other  than  his  father's  son. 

Suddenly,  the  talk  turned,  and  Archdale's  own 
name  was  mentioned. 


24o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Thelluson. 

"In  France/'  Wrest  replied. 

David  considered  the  ethical  propriety  of  leaving 
the  club,  but  curiosity  restrained  him.  Also,  he 
was  humorously  sensible  that  as  an  eavesdropper  an 
evil  he  might  overhear  concerning  himself  would  fall 
far  short  of  the  real  truth,  as  he  saw  it  with  absolute 
clarity. 

"  Archdale  is  the  best  fellow  I  know,"  said  Thelluson. 

"What  rot!"  sneered  Newsom. 

"I  know  dozens  of  men  whom  he  has  helped." 

"Nothing  of  the  'humble  Allen'  about  him 
evidently." 

"Has  he  ever  helped  you,  Newsom  ?"  asked  Wrest. 

"Of  course  not.     Why?" 

"I  thought  it  possible,  as  you  seemed  to  have  a 
grudge  against  him." 

"Against  him  —  no;  against  what  he  stands  for  - 
yes.     As  for  helping  people,  why  shouldn't  he  ?     He's 
made  pots  of  money  out  of  an  idiotic  public,  and  in 
return  he  scatters  a  sort  of  largesse.     Don't  talk  to  me 
about  Archdale!" 

"I  won't,"  said  Thelluson,  with  a  grin.  "I'll  talk 
to  Wrest.  You  can  stick  your  head  under  a  cushion 
if  you  like." 

Newsom  stalked  from  the  room. 

"  Poor  devil !"  said  Thelluson.  "  He's  not  fit  to  black 
David's  boots." 

David  in  the  flesh  would  have  felt  an  agreeable  titilla- 
tion  at  this  tribute  from  a  dispenser  of  salt  rather  than 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  241 

sugar,  but  David  disembodied  smiled  sourly,  for  in 
Newsom's  mind  he  had  recognized  many  visitors  to 
whom  he  had  extended  hospitality.  Then  he  heard 
Wrest  saying  quietly: 

"Is  David  a  happy  man?" 

"Who  can  answer  such  questions?" 

"You  pretend  to  understand  men,  to  read  character, 
to  pass  judgment.  I  don't.  I  can  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  Archdale's  work,  but  of  the  real  man  I  know 
little." 

"I  repeat  —  he  is  one  of  the  best." 

"I  take  exception  to  a  phrase  so  hackneyed  and  so 
general.  What  do  you  mean  by  the  best"? 

"You  know  well  enough,  mon  vieux." 

"Perhaps.  But  the  'best'  is  a  big  word.  Archdale 
has  been  endowed  with  tremendous  gifts.  If  I  believed 
in  reincarnation  I  should  be  willing  to  admit  that  he 
is  'one  of  the  best/  that,  in  short,  his  amazing  pre- 
eminence would  indicate  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  evi- 
dence of  an  accumulation  of  talents  and  rewards." 

Thelluson  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  represent  accumulation  also." 

"I  do  —  I  do.  It's  amazing.  And  if  one  knew  a 
little  more !" 

They  smoked  on  in  silence,  while  David,  who 
did  know  the  little  more,  asked  himself  the  question: 
"Is  Wrest  right?  Have  I  lived  before?  And,  if  so, 
why  am  I  not  conscious  of  these  former  lives  ?" 

The  question  became  the  more  interesting,  because 
in  his  present  state  he  felt  intolerably  burdened  with  a 


242  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

knowledge  and  experience  too  great  to  have  been  gar- 
nered during  one  lifetime.  At  last  he  confronted  what 
he  had  reckoned  to  be  mere  instinct.  But  with  this 
lifting  of  the  veil,  so  wide  a  prospect  and  intropsect 
were  revealed  that  he  was  at  a  loss  to  "take  in"  what 
he  perceived. 

At  this  moment  Newsom  rushed  into  the  room,  pale 
and  breathless  with  excitement.  His  distress  was 
so  evident  that  both  Wrest  and  Thelluson  jumped  up. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  said  Wrest. 

"Archdale—  Archdale!" 

"What  of  him?" 

"  Oh,  it's  awful  —  awful.  And  I  was  speaking 
against  him.  He's  dead,  smashed  in  a  motor  accident. 
The  news  has  just  come  over  the  'ticker.' ' 

He  sat  down,  trembling  violently,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"Archdale  dead?"  repeated  old  Wrest.  "I  can't 
believe  it." 

Thelluson,  without  speaking,  left  the  room,  but  he 
returned  immediately  as  pale  and  distressed  as  Newsom 
had  been. 

"It's  only  too  horribly  true,"  he  stammered.  "I 
say,  Wrest,  what  about  his  daughter  ?  They'll  be 
shouting  the  news  in  the  streets  within  half  an  hour." 

"No,  no,"  said  Wrest.  "The  last  edition  of  the 
evening  papers  is  out.  But  I  will  'phone  Mrs.  Stor- 
mont.  Poor  child!  My  God!  what  a  catastrophe! 
She  adored  her  father!" 

"David  adored  her!"  said  Thelluson. 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  243 

And  David,  since  the  accident  had  been  so  preoc- 
cupied with  his  own  confounding  experience  that  he 
had  not  even  thought  of  his  child. 

Why  had  he  forgotten  one  so  dear  to  him  ?  Was 
this  the  supreme  proof  of  his  selfishness  ? 

Immediately  he  was  seized  with  a  passionate  desire 
to  go  to  her,  to  be  at  her  side  when  the  dreadful  moment 
came,  to  sustain  her,  to  inspire  —  if  it  were  possible  - 
some  solace,  the  assurance  that  his  love  for  her  remained 
constant,  or  even  greater  than  it  had  been.  Surely  he 
would  be  permitted  to  do  that  ? 

He  saw  by  the  clock  that  it  was  late,  and  that  Mollie, 
probably,  was  in  bed  and  asleep.  They  would  let  her 
sleep  till  the  morrow.  Mrs.  Stormont  could  be  trusted 
to  see  to  that.  Then,  as  he  left  the  room,  he  heard 
Wrest  saying: 

"Archdale  might  have  accomplished  great  things." 

His  epitaph  had  been  spoken. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    SOUL   OF    A   CHILD 

DAVID  passed  slowly  through  crowds  composed 
of  quick  and  dead.  The  thoroughfares 
swarmed  with  spirits  darting  hither  and 
thither  with  bat-like  movements.  Outside  the  gin-pal- 
aces, the  lowest  forms  fought  for  the  possession  of  human 
bodies,  seeking  the  gratification  of  appetites  inordinate 
during  the  earth-life  and  still  unsated  long  after  death. 
David  perceived  that  the  spirit  world,  upon  the  plane 
nearest  to  earth,  is  subject  to  the  vices  and  temptations 
of  earth.  The  lust  of  the  flesh,  in  fine,  was  the 
right  name  for  that  power  which  he  had  likened  to 
the  law  of  gravitation.  And  that  lust  could  only  be 
enjoyed  through  the  flesh,  when  in  possession  of 
the  flesh,  which  —  so  David  perceived  —  must  be 
willing  to  entertain  the  desires  clamouring  for 
admittance. 

At  this  moment  he  began  to  apprehend  the  miracle 
of  the  human  will.  His  eyes  pierced  beneath  the 
surface  of  man  and  things  with  the  penetration  of  the 
Rontgen  ray.  That  curious  clearness  of  what  was 
animate  and  what  he  had  hitherto  regarded  as 
inanimate  was  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  could 
resolve  what  he  beheld  into  ultimate  atoms.  A 
marvellous  light,  burning  more  or  less  brightly,  illu- 

244 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CHILD  245 

mined  every  object  upon  which  his  eye  rested.  By 
it  all  secrets  were  revealed. 

Many,  and  these  not  outwardly  the  most  strong, 
seemed  to  be  immune  against  the  attacks  of  the  vicious 
thought-forms.  David  watched  with  interest  a  young 
girl,  shabbily  dressed,  who  was  walking  alone  in  the 
direction  whither  he  was  going.  She  was  about  the 
age  of  Mollie,  but  insignificant  in  feature  and  form, 
with  a  complexion  pallid  from  lack  of  nourishing  food, 
and  a  thin,  undeveloped  body  wearied  by  overwork. 
Beside  her  flaunted  a  beautiful  woman  whom  David 
recognized  as  an  erstwhile  chorister  at  the  Jollity 
Theatre.  In  each  the  light  burned,  blazing  with  incom- 
parable brilliance  in  the  one,  flickering  tempestuously 
in  the  other.  And  by  its  white  flame,  lo!  the  poor 
work  girl  became  transfigured  into  a  dazzling  creature; 
and  the  flickering  spark  seemed  to  change  the  beauty  of 
the  older  woman  into  something  loathly  and  monstrous. 

David  understood  that  of  necessity  each  person  must 
possess  an  aura,  and  that  its  quality  and  colour  must, 
as  inevitably,  depend  upon  the  quantity  of  light  within 
and  the  power  of  that  light  to  pierce  the  gross  wrappings 
of  the  flesh. 

While  perceiving  and  recording  these  impressions, 
David  thought  with  ever  increasing  pleasure  of  his 
own  child,  into  whose  white  soul  he  was  about  to  gaze. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  he  should  have  been  so 
engrossed  with  himself  and  the  analysis  of  his  own 
emotions  as  to  have  forgotten  this  essential  part  of  him, 
his  very  flesh  that  remained.  The  mere  thought  of 


246  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

seeing  her  again,  of  seeing  her,  moreover,  as  she  was, 
filled  him  with  delight.  The  famous  soldier  he  had 
met  and  his  poor  friend  —  why  had  they  not  mentioned 
this  supreme  interest,  this  tremendous  link  between 
parent  and  child  ?  Each  had  married,  each  had  chil- 
dren. And  neither  had  spoken  of  them. 

Leaving  Piccadilly,  David  passed  into  the  Park, 
upon  whose  wide,  unpeopled  expanses  of  soft  turf 
the  stars  shone  softly.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  reach 
Stormont  Lodge.  He  wanted  to  think  of  his  child, 
to  behold  her  with  the  lucid  detachment  and  sane 
judgment  with  which  he  had  beheld  poor  Newsom, 
who,  indeed,  had  moved  him  to  profoundest  pity. 

Accordingly,  he  sat  down  by  the  Serpentine  upon  a 
bench  often  occupied  by  him  during  his  earth-life. 
It  had  been  his  habit,  when  he  first  returned  to  London, 
after  Mary's  death,  during  that  abominable  period 
of  sleeplessness,  to  rise  early  and  walk  in  Hyde  Park. 
Here,  many  of  his  most  popular  songs  had  been  con- 
ceived. Doubtless  their  delightful  lyrical  quality  came 
from  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  ever-changing  skies 
translucently  reflected  in  the  water.  But  David  had 
never  forgotten  that  "the  people"  surrounded  this 
vast  garden.  And  we  may  believe  that  the  popular 
note,  instantly  recognized  by  them,  proceeded  from 
them.  In  David's  musical  comedies  even  an  untrained 
ear  could  mark  the  rhythm  and  colour  of  life  as  it  lived 
in  an  immense  city.  Dominating  exquisite  trills  and 
cadences  was  the  hum  of  the  vast  crowd,  now  muted  to  an 
attenuated  whisper,  now  swelling  to  a  thunderous  roar. 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CHILD  247 

Beneath  the  stars,  the  waters  of  the  Serpentine 
shimmered  with  a  delicate  radiance,  reflecting  the 
worlds  above,  infinitely  multiplied,  each  illuminated 
by  the  mystic  light  of  the  Divine  Mind,  each  saturated 
with  It  and  by  It.  And  he  perceived  that  what  we 
call  matter  is  only  inorganic  in  the  sense  that  it  receives 
and  transmits  the  light  with  difficulty  and  in  varying 
quantities  according  to  the  stage  of  evolution  which  each 
object,  whether  stone,  or  tree,  or  animal  has  reached. 

With  this  knowledge  of  the  Divine  Mind  penetrating 
all  forms  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  forms  in 
themselves  of  graduated  consciousness  and  power, 
came  also  the  knowledge  of  his  own  limitations.  He 
knew  so  much  more  than  he  had  ever  believed  it  possible 
to  know  of  the  plane  whereon  he  moved,  that  he  became 
conscious  of  the  infinitely  fuller  life  upon  the  planes 
above.  And  his  increasing  realization  of  what  was 
above  and  beyond  aroused  the  conviction  that  once 
he  had  moved  upon  these  upper  planes  and  had  brought 
from  them  memories  which  now  lay  like  shadows  upon 
an  undeveloped  photographic  plate.  If  he  had  lived 
before,  if  he  were  destined  to  live  again,  this  supreme 
consciousness  of  an  immortal  self  would  quicken  upon 
these  planes  and  nowhere  else.  Apprehending  this, 
the  power  which  attracted  him  upward  seemed  to  grow 
in  strength;  the  earth-dust  weakened. 

He  told  himself,  passionately,  that  he  was  not  as 
those  other  spirits  whom  he  had  met.  Earthly  desires 
and  ambitions  he  was  willing  to  surrender.  He  would 
see  his  child  and  ascend. 


248  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Mollie  —  as  he  had  guessed  —  was  asleep  when 
he  entered  her  room.  He  gazed  at  a  sweet  face,  half 
hidden  by  masses  of  thick  waving  hair.  Exercising 
a  curious  attribute  of  his  disembodied  powers  of  vision, 
he  could  perceive  at  will  the  outward  and  the  inward, 
or  either  separately.  Lacking  the  desire  to  see,  he 
saw  nothing. 

Mollie's  room  presented  a  virginal  appearance  of 
blue  and  white.  Mrs.  Stormont  was  blessed  with  a 
nice  sense  of  what  was  appropriate;  and  David  per- 
ceived with  complacency  that  his  darling  was  enshrined 
in  a  perfect  setting.  He  was  reminded  of  a  pearl, 
untouched  by  the  hands  of  men,  lying  in  a  shell  of 
mother-of-pearl.  A  delicate  fragrance  filled  the  air, 
the  perfume  of  some  white  blossoms  of  spring.  Upon 
the  dressing  table  lay  the  ivory  brushes,  and  many 
other  pretty  things  which  he  had  given  to  her.  By 
the  side  of  the  looking  glass  was  a  large  photograph 
of  himself.  Upon  the  other  side  was  a  portrait  of 
Mary  taken  shortly  after  her  marriage.  Pignerol's 
genial  smile  and  quizzical  eyes,  Fermor's  gfave,  kindly 
countenance,  greeted  David  familiarly.  Each  seemed 
to  say:  "We  are  here  —  on  guard." 

Between  the  girl's  parted  lips,  one  could  just  see 
the  small,  well-set  teeth;  her  long  eyelashes  showed 
as  a  dark  shadow  beneath  the  heavy  lids;  upon  her 
cheeks  glowed  the  flush  of  healthy  sleep. 

Few  fathers  could  have  gazed  unmoved  at  so  fair 
a  daughter.  And  into  David's  heart  there  rushed  a 
wave  of  unutterable  tenderness  and  love,  so  over- 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CHILD  249 

whelming,  so  vast  a  surge,  that  it  seemed  to  obliterate 
previous  sensibilities.  He  told  himself  that  this  was  his 
justification  for  having  lived.  His  ambitions  vanished. 
The  music  within  him  seemed  to  melt  upon  a  silence, 
to  float  from  him  with  a  faint  sigh  of  protest.  He 
laughed,  thinking  of  the  absurd  saw  about  Art  being 
long  and  Life  short.  What  was  Art  but  the  expression, 
the  necessarily  ephemeral  expression,  of  immortal  life  ? 
The  best  art  endured  throughout  a  few  centuries, 
merely  because  it  presented  life  faithfully. 

Which  was  the  greater  —  "Solomon's  Garden,"  or 
Mollie  ? 

He  saw  that  she  had  been  reading  before  she  fell 
asleep.  The  book  lay  upon  the  counterpane,  close  to 
an  outstretched  arm;  her  delicate  fingers,  so  like  his 
own,  almost  touched  a  turned-down  page  at  which  he 
glanced,  remembering  with  a  pang  Mrs.  Stormont's 
indictment  that  he  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  his 
daughter's  favourite  hero. 

Then  he  read  the  title  of  the  book,  asking  himself, 
wonderingly,  if  it  were  possible  that  his  little  Mollie 
was  poisoning  her  mind  with  such  fungus  fare  as  this. 

The  novel  had  enjoyed  a  vogue,  because  of  its  sub- 
tlety and  daring.  It  dealt  with  incidents  connected  with 
the  breaking  of  the  seventh  Commandment,  and  the 
evil  in  the  book  was  the  greater  because,  obviously, 
the  sympathies  of  the  writer  included  the  sin  with  the 
sinners.  David,  singularly  clean-minded,  held  too 
fast,  perhaps,  to  the  old-fashioned  principle  of  cherish- 
ing innocence.  The  men  and  women  who  came  to  his 


250  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

house  understood  this  and  respected  it.  The  slightest 
word  likely  to  offend  the  sensibilities  of  a  child 
would  have  brought  upon  the  speaker  a  crushing 
rebuke. 

At  once,  from  his  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Stormont, 
David  knew  that  it  was  unthinkable  to  suppose  her 
capable  of  placing  this  book  in  Mollie's  hands.  Mollie, 
therefore,  was  reading  it  "on  the  sly."  The  detestable 
phrase,  festered  in  a  mind  dominated  by  an  increasing 
dread  of  discovering  something  worse.  He  looked  into 
the  book,  instead  of  into  the  heart  of  the  child.  Upon 
every  page  an  appeal  to  the  senses  presented  itself 
with  diabolical  suggestiveness.  The  writer  seemed 
to  be  intoxicated  with  juices  expressed  from  forbidden 
fruit;  he  frolicked  along  the  primrose  way  apparently 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  spring  was  not  the  only 
season  in  the  year;  he  wallowed  in  sunshine  and  roses. 
To  David,  the  author's  moral  obliquity  of  vision,  his 
perversity  of  judgment  in  regard  to  what  is  pure  and 
true,  his  morbid  presentation  of  vice  masquerading 
as  virtue  —  these  were  revealed  as  monstrous  and 
unmistakable.  David  saw  fanged  rocks  beneath  the 
opaline  surface  of  a  summer  sea.  Mollie,  of  course, 
was  enchanted  by  the  magic  of  sensuous  words  and 
glowing  phrases,  and  blind  to  aught  else.  She  had 
heard,  probably,  that  the  book  was  "wonderfully 
written,"  and  at  her  age  the  wonderful  appealed 
immensely. 

Accordingly,  we  behold  the  fond  father  smiling  at 
fear,  fortified  by  the  conviction  that  all  things  must 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CHILD  251 

be  pure  to  the  pure.  One  glimpse  into  Mollie's  mind 
would  put  to  flight  grisly  phantoms. 

And  yet  he  hesitated. 

The  child's  soul  was  holy  ground.  His  own  unworth- 
iness  oppressed  him,  while  the  yearning  to  enter  became 
irresistible. 

Suddenly  the  girl's  physical  body  seemed  to  vanish,  as 
if  obscured  by  a  mist.  David,  indeed,  perceived  a  cloud, 
and  remarked  that  it  was  dull  and  opaque.  Imme- 
diately, his  quickening  intelligence,  which  seemed  to 
answer  questions  almost  before  they  were  put,  explained 
the  nature  of  this  surprising  mist.  Brief  as  had  been 
his  experience  as  a  disembodied  spirit,  he  had  learned 
that  Man  upon  the  earth-plane  possesses  more  than 
one  body,  and  that  each  of  these  can  express  itself 
in  colour,  form  and  light.  He  realized  that  up  to  this 
moment,  he  had  been  gazing  upon  the  physical  body, 
and  that  Mollie's  mental  body  had  not  forced  itself 
upon  his  notice,  partly  because  he  had  concentrated 
his  attention  upon  the  dear  flesh,  and,  partly,  because 
the  mind  may  have  been  absent,  wandering  in  idle 
vagabondage  along  dream-paths  whither  he  might 
not  be  able  to  follow.  Now,  presumably,  the  mind- 
body  had  returned. 

As  the  mist  seemed  to  clear,  although  but  partially, 
David  saw  that  this  was  so.  He  beheld  once  more  the 
physical  body,  slightly  relaxed.  A  soft  sigh  fluttered 
from  Mollie's  lips.  Her  fingers  moved.  Her  bosom 
rose  and  fell. 

Then  the  father  looked  deep  into  his  child's  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
MARY'S  VOICE 

HE  BEHELD  a  wilderness.  The  bubbling 
fountain  of  Youth  seemed  to  be  clogged  by 
growths  malignantly  active.  He  was  re- 
minded of  his  visit  to  the  garden  which  Mary  had  planted 
and  watered  with  such  solicitude,  and  which  now,  neg- 
lected and  abandoned,  had  become  a  tangled  thicket  of 
nettles  and  weeds.  And,  as  in  the  garden  he  had 
witnessed  the  struggle  between  fair  and  foul,  the 
higher  vegetation  fighting  desperately  against  the 
assault  of  the  lower;  so  also  in  the  child's  soul  he  saw 
the  same  inexorable  warfare.  What  he  had  transmitted, 
his  own  lower  nature,  was  fighting  with  the  higher  attri- 
butes inherited  from  Mary.  And  his  evil  was  over- 
powering her  good.  The  weeds  strangling  the  flowers 
had  been  planted  in  this  virgin  soul  by  him.  He  recog- 
nized them  instantly;  selfishness,  vanity,  pride,  and  a 
sensuousness  likely,  if  unchecked,  to  ripen  into  sensu- 
ality, David  had  not  been  sensual  in  the  grosser 
meaning  of  the  word;  for,  in  his  case,  the  senses 
remained  subordinate  to  the  intellect.  Love  of  light 
and  form  and  colour,  passion  for  sweet  sounds  and 
fragrant  essences,  these  had  served  to  minister  to  his 
art,  and  had  found  expression  in  the  music  which  so 
endeared  him  to  the  multitude. 

252 


MARY'S  VOICE  253 

In  fine,  his  art  had  preserved  him  from  intemperance. 

But  Mollie  was  no  devotee  of  art,  although  acutely 
sensitive  to  art  in  its  Protean  manifestations.  Part 
of  her  charm  flowed  from  a  catholic  appreciation  of 
and  sympathy  with  the  various  artists  she  was  con- 
tinually meeting;  nevertheless,  like  her  mother,  she  had 
no  special  aptitudes  for  the  works  she  admired. 

David  understood  why  the  famous  soldier  and  the 
charming  woman  of  the  world  had  not  mentioned  their 
children.  They  also  —  could  he  doubt  it  ?  —  must 
have  stood  appalled  and  tormented  in  the  presence 
of  evil  bequeathed  to  the  flesh  they  had  created. 

He  saw  more. 

He  realized  a  present  helplessness  to  modify  condi- 
tions which  his  neglect  had  brought  about;  he  perceived, 
with  anguish,  that  he  had  failed  abominably  both 
in  the  lesser  work  of  his  hands  and  brain,  and  in  the 
infinitely  greater  task  apportioned  to  the  spirit. 

At  this  moment  he  knew  that  he  stood  in  Hell,  and 
that  the  time  was  come  when  his  child  would  join  him 
with  the  flame  of  an  eternal  reproach  in  her  loving  eyes. 

He  found  himself  outside  Stormont  Lodge,  upon  the 
broad  pavement  between  the  road  and  the  Park.  He 
was  conscious  only  of  intense  misery  and  despair,  and 
a  confounding  weakening  of  the  mental  faculties. 
Suddenly  the  conviction  assailed  him  that  he  was  not 
responsible  for  the  evil  in  Mollie,  nor  for  the  havoc  that 
might  follow.  Every  specious  argument  which  has 
fallen  glibly  from  the  lips  of  atheists  and  agnostics  for- 
tified this  conviction.  He  told  himself,  or  something 


254  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

told  him,  that  existence  upon  this  other  side  revealed 
no  evidence  of  a  pitying  God.  Here,  as  on  earth,  were 
the  same  detestable  and  incomprehensible  injustice, 
the  same  insurmountable  barriers.  Some  disembodied 
spirits,  like  Fermor,  soared  upward,  but  whither  and 
wherefore  ?  The  innumerable  many  remained  upon 
the  plane  nearest  earth,  condemned  to  linger  there  in 
ignorance  of  what  might  be  above  them,  wiser  in  some 
degree  than  those  hampered  by  the  flesh,  but  as  cruelly 
hampered  by  the  limitations  of  the  spirit. 

He  experienced  a  devastating  desire  to  curse  God,  to 
blaspheme  horribly  against  the  unknown  Power  who 
had  created  Mollie  and  himself. 

It  was  long  past  midnight.  A  few  waifs  drifted  by 
with  the  weary,  shambling  step  of  those  who  dare  not 
hasten  front  ills  they  know  to  ills  conceivably  worse. 
Above,  a  pall  of  darkness  seemed  to  be  descending. 
This  affected  David  with  an  indefinable  terror.  He 
recalled  the  story  of  a  man  imprisoned  in  a  cell  which 
grew  smaller  and  smaller,  closing  in  upon  the  captive 
with  slow  and  merciless  certainty.  Another  some- 
what similar  tale  presented  itself  to  his  tormented 
memory.  He  beheld  a  man  lying  upon  a  soft  wide 
bed,  the  old-fashioned  four-poster.  And,  inch  by  inch, 
the  heavy  canopy  above  slid  down  and  down  —  an 
impending  horror  of  suffocation  and  death.  The  man 
in  the  story,  paralysed  till  the  last  moment,  had  escaped. 
But  David  could  not  escape.  He  seemed  to  be  rooted 
to  the  earth,  while  the  darkness  encompassed  him. 


MARY'S  VOICE  255 

It  began  to  rain  with  tropical  violence.  Within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  the  gutters  were  brimmed  with 
muddy  water;  the  flood  poured  down  with  a  sullen, 
continuous  roar.  A  woman  miserably  clad,  holding 
her  baby  to  her  breast,  staggered  past  David.  He  heard 
her  exclaim  piteously,  "O  my  God,  my  God!"  Hard 
by,  crouching  beneath  the  iron  palings  of  the  Park, 
was  a  child,  a  hunted  wraith  of  hunger  and  disease. 
It  coughed  unceasingly.  And  then  a  magnificent  motor 
purred  homeward,  scattering  mud  to  right  and  left 
of  it.  David  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  beautiful  girl  alone 
in  the  car.  Her  eyes  were  half-closed;  upon  her  lips, 
red  as  the  feathers  of  a  flamingo,  was  a  complacent 
smile,  as  if  this  favourite  of  fortune  were  contrasting 
her  sense  of  well-being  with  the  misery  upon  both  sides 
of  her.  Upon  Mollie's  face  the  father  had  remarked 
the  same  complacent  smile.  Out  of  the  darkness 
flashed  this  radiant  presentment  of  rank  and  fashion 
and  beauty;  into  the  mirk  it  vanished  to  the  accompa- 
niment of  that  almost  bestial  purr,  the  soft  triumphant 
note  of  the  machine-made  civilization  indifferent  to 
the  elemental  forces  from  which  it  was  immune. 

At  that  moment  temptation  descended  upon  David 
like  the  tons  of  water  which  were  falling  about  him. 
He  realised  with  a  consciousness  infinitely  more  intense 
than  anything  he  had  experienced  during  his  earth  life, 
the  supreme  power  of  the  imagination.  The  poten- 
tialities of  evil  ravaged  him.  He  apprehended  the 
derisive  words  of  the  famous  soldier,  the  still  more 
derisive  laughter  of  the  woman  of  the  world. 


256  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

He  had  found  out  what  he  could  do  without  limita- 
tion. 

The  lusts  of  the  flesh  were  still  his.  And  he  could 
see  to  the  depths,  although  no  vision  of  the  heights  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  him. 

As  the  sins  of  the  imagination  took  possession  with  an 
intoxicating  enticement,  he  became  once  more  aware  of 
that  tremendous  power  dragging  him  downward.  And 
the  gratification  of  appetites  hitherto  suppressed  seemed 
to  be  the  one  thing  left,  the  greatest  thing.  He  could 
enjoy  illimitably  those  carnal  pleasures  which  he  had 
disdained.  He  could  enjoy  them  the  more  because 
he  could  share  them  with  others.  He  knew  that  he 
could  enter  at  will  bodies  ripe  and  ardent  for  volup- 
tuous passions,  and,  with  their  passions  sated,  their 
bodies  enervated,  he  could  abandon  them,  seeking  other 
habitations  in  a  never-ending  quest,  with  a  spirit  whose 
inordinate  appetite  would  but  increase  for  the  food  it 
craved. 

The  rain  ceased  falling;  the  chill  darkness  fled. 
Up  and  down  the  vast  thoroughfare  gleamed  and 
glittered  the  white  arc  lights,  reflected  ten  thousand 
times  in  every  pool  and  puddle  upon  road  and  pave- 
ment. From  the  windows  of  the  houses  facing  the 
Park  shone  a  few  subdued  topaz-coloured  flames  of 
gas  and  lamp.  Above  were  the  stars.  Upon  the  other 
side  of  the  planet  the  sun  was  blazing  in  stainless 
skies. 

The  struggle,  the  civil  war  in  David's  soul,  began 


MARY'S  VOICE  257 

with  the  lifting  of  the  darkness.  The  powers  of  light 
arrayed  themselves  against  their  enemies.  David  felt 
the  attraction  from  above,  the  tightening  of  the  golden 
chain.  And  once  more  his  will,  the  omnipotent  will 
to  choose,  manifested  itself.  An  activity  of  the  mental 
faculties  sprang,  armed,  into  being,  the  instinct  to  fight 
became  dominant. 

He  never  knew  how  long  the  battle  raged,  but 
throughout  he  was  aware  of  his  own  responsibility,  of 
his  right  to  direct  or  misdirect  the  force  within  him. 
And  when  he  was  most  beset  by  evil,  his  failing  energies 
seemed  to  gather  strength  from  the  light  which  began 
to  transpose  itself  into  sound.  In  the  utter  darkness 
he  had  heard  nothing  but  the  inarticulate  roar  of  the 
rain,  the  pitiless  chatter  and  patter  of  the  flood.  He 
heard  it  still,  the  monstrous  travailing  and  groaning  of 
evil,  but  through  it  and  above  it,  with  ever-increasing 
sweetness,  penetrated  the  finer,  attenuated  strain. 

Presently  some  phrase,  some  haunting  cadence, 
struck  David  as  familiar.  Not  for  some  time,  how- 
ever, did  he  realise  that  he  was  listening  to  his  own 
music,  the  exquisite  recitative  in  "Solomon's  Garden." 

Awake,  O  north  wind;  and  come,  thou  south;  blow  upon  my 
garden  that  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out. 

Dazed,  utterly  confounded,  the  passionate  desire 
formed  itself  in  David's  mind  that  he  might  interpret 
the  mystery  of  this  echo  of  his  own  music,  an  echo 
floating  apparently  from  some  celestial  choir,  an  echo 
incomparably  beautiful  and  sublime.  The  answer 


258  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

came  to  him  soft  as  a  flake  of  snow.  This  imperish- 
able music  which  he  had  created  when  he  was  young 
and  strong  and  clean  represented  energies  directed 
aright,  and  perhaps  more  —  a  reserve  force,  a  spiritual 
capital,  upon  which,  so  to  speak,  he  could  draw,  the 
asset  standing  between  him  and  ruin. 

But  the  final  struggle  was  yet  to  come.  Listening 
to  his  own  music  so  marvellously  orchestrated,  he  was 
transported  to  Mary's  garden,  where  he  beheld  again 
the  very  flowers  that  had  inspired  his  loveliest  themes. 
He  could  see  it  as  it  was,  ravaged  by  weeds,  and  as 
it  had  been  in  Mary's  lifetime  —  all  glorious.  And 
here,  at  the  moment  when  he  deemed  himself  free,  the 
weeds  seem  to  twine  themselves  about  his  soul,  tentacles 
imbued  with  a  terrible  life  and  strength  which  sucked 
life  and  power  from  him. 

Hardly  conscious  of  anything  save  the  necessity 
of  a  last  rending  effort  to  escape  from  a  jungle  of  wan- 
ton and  pestiferous  vegetation,  David  called  upon  Mary 
to  destroy  the  weeds  which  she  had  fought  and 
conquered  so  long  ago. 

Simultaneously,  a  loathing  of  the  soft,  flexible, 
caressing  tendrils  overwhelmed  him;  for  the  vision  of 
his  child  at  the  mercy  of  these  crawling,  poisonous 
serpents  had  come  to  him  with  dazzling  vividness. 
And,  even  as  he  had  called  upon  Mary  —  and  apparent- 
ly in  vain  —  to  save  himself,  so  now  with  more  despe- 
rate invocation  he  besought  God  to  save  Mollie.  If  he 
must  perish,  let  her  live. 


MARY'S  VOICE  259 

Minutes  or  years  might  have  passed  when  he  found 
himself  upon  a  lofty  alp,  looking  down  upon  the  other 
peaks  rising  majestically  out  of  masses  of  cloud  lying 
motionless  upon  the  snow-fields  they  covered.  The 
sharpness  of  edge  of  these  peaks,  their  austerity  of 
line,  their  symbolism  expressive  of  the  Titanic,  con- 
vulsive energy  which  had  exposed  such  bare  bones  of 
the  earth,  their  everlastingness,  accorded  with  David's 
new  perceptions.  He,  too,  stood  bare  beneath  high 
heaven,  above  the  mists  of  earth,  yet  of  earth,  and 
rooted  tremendously  in  earth.  If  the  desires  of  the 
flesh  had  passed  away,  the  fact  that  they  had  left  him 
naked  and  ashamed  remained.  He  felt  that  he  could 
never  return  to  the  planes  below,  and  he  told  himself 
miserably  that  he  could  journey  no  nearer  to  the  planes 
above.  Was  he  doomed,  like  these  icy  rocks,  to  re- 
main where  he  was,  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds  of 
remorse,  drenched  by  his  own  unavailing  tears  ? 

Such  rags  of  self-righteousness  as  may  have  remained 
vanished.  From  some  deep,  unexplored  zone  of 
consciousness,  what  he  had  done  and  left  undone 
throughout  his  terrestrial  existence  confronted  him. 
He  became  his  own  judge;  or,  shall  we  say  that  the 
God  within  him  rose  clear-eyed  and  omniscient  to 
unveil  the  Man  ?  There  was  no  process  of  introspec- 
tion. His  record  spread  itself  before  him. 

Below,  abysses  yawned,  while  vast  glaciers  moved 
imperceptibly  upon  their  appointed  way,  regardless  of 
all  obstacles;  into  their  unplumbed  crevasses  roared 
masses  of  melting  snow.  These  were  the  voices  of 


26o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

the  mountain,  the  travailing  and  groaning  of  gigantic 
elemental  forces  subservient  to  the  eternal  laws  of 
Energy  and  Motion.  And  in  the  spiritual  world,  these 
laws  manifested  the  same  evolution,  the  same  sequence, 
the  same  progress. 

Since  Mary's  death,  David  had  not  prayed.  At 
the  moment  of  her  passing  to  the  other  side,  he  had 
besought  her  to  come  back;  and  that  prayer  - 
addressed  primarily  to  her  —  remained  unanswered 
for  a  reason  which  he  was  now  able  to  perceive.  The 
finer  spirits,  purged  of  the  earth-taint,  could  not 
return,  being  subject  to  some  law  whose  workings  no 
earth-fettered  slave  was  permitted  to  behold,  a  law 
as  immutable  as  that  which  governed  the  progress  of 
a  glacier. 

It  has  been  recorded  that  David  had  lost  faith  in 
revealed  religion,  because,  so  he  contended,  it  was  not 
revealed  to  him.  If  we  except  his  futile  attempts  to 
seek  truth  in  the  "parlours"  of  mediums  and  clair- 
voyants, we  behold  him,  like  the  weed  on  Lethe's 
wharf,  "rotting  at  ease"  in  the  Tom  Tiddler's  ground 
of  a  facile  success.  Deliberately  he  had  put  from  him 
religious  thought  and  aspiration. 

Now,  his  conviction  of  the  continuity  of  life,  his 
recognition  of  his  organism  as  one  of  infinite  vibrations, 
and  lastly  the  supreme  fact  that  his  love  for  Mary 
and  his  child  had  not  only  survived  the  disintegration 
of  the  flesh,  but  had  increased  immeasurably  in  intensity 
and  purity,  produced  in  him  an  abasement  and  humility 
impossible  to  set  forth. 


MARY'S  VOICE  261 

Nevertheless,  the  quality  of  this  humility  must  be 
briefly  indicated.  It  is  significant  that  at  such  a 
crisis  he  accepted  the  law  which  constrained  him  to 
linger  on  earth.  There  was  no  rebellion,  no  selfish 
desire  that  this  law  should  be  suspended  or  modified 
for  his  advantage.  He  bowed  his  head  beneath  an 
inexorable  verdict.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  since  his 
adoption  by  Fermor  he  resigned  himself  to  the  Divine 
Will,  preferring  his  passionate  request  in  meek  obedi- 
ence to  It,  and  exhibiting  thereby  a  renascent  faith  in 
It.  For  he  prayed  with  a  supplication  which  was 
absolutely  selfless  that  he  might,  while  on  earth,  be 
permitted  to  uproot  the  weeds  in  his  child's  soul,  that 
a  communication  might  be  established  between  them 
along  which,  in  undiluted  essence,  love  might  cleanse 
and  redeem  her. 

While  he  prayed,  he  became  conscious  of  an  uplifting, 
as  if  tender  hands  were  raising  him.  He  passed  into 
a  warmer  air.  He  tried  to  open  his  eyes,  and,  failing 
in  the  attempt,  resigned  himself  quite  contentedly 
to  blindness.  He  knew  that  an  "ampler  ether"  encom- 
passed him,  that  he  was  suffused  with  an  ecstasy 
entrancingly  sweet.  Some  of  us  have  experienced  this 
ecstasy  in  dreams.  We  have  suffered  abominably, 
tossed  hither  and  thither  upon  turbulent  waves  of 
perplexity,  and  terror,  vividly  conscious  that  we  are 
at  the  mercy  of  an  unknown  and  cruel  element,  and 
then,  quite  suddenly,  a  soothing  balm  seems  to  be 
shed  upon  the  waters,  and  we  find  ourselves  lulled 
to  rest,  drifting  gently  to  some  safe  harbourage,  a 


262  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

sanctuary  of  the  spirit,  wherein  we  know  nothing 
save  the  glad  conviction  that  it  is  well  with  us. 

Wafted  upward,  David  still  prayed  that  the  love  so 
strong  within  him  might  serve  definite  purpose.  Borne 
along,  swiftly  and  smoothly,  his  faith  that  his  prayer 
would  be  answered  seemed  to  increase  as  he 
ascended.  Despair,  which  had  clutched  his  heart,  was 
left  behind.  He  was  mounting,  mounting  upon  the 
Heavenly  Way.  .  .  . 

Then  the  miracle  happened.  He  heard  Mary's 
voice,  calling  him  by  name. 

"David!" 

Speechless  with  delight,  he  once  more  attempted  to 
open  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  fingers 
upon  his  lids. 

He  tried  to  speak.  Mary's  fingers  pressed  his  lips 
into  silence.  Mary  continued: 

"You  have  come  to  me,  David;  I  could  not  go  to 
you.  You  came  upon  the  wings  of  love,  and  upon 
the  same  wings  you  must  return." 

Then  he  must  leave  her  ? 

She  answered  the  unspoken  question  swiftly: 

"You  desire  to  help  Mollie?" 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"If  your  prayer  be  granted,  David,  if  a  chance  be 
given  to  you  to  redeem  our  daughter,  the  conditions 
may  be  quite  other  than  what  you  think  them  to  be. 
Are  you  prepared  to  go  back  unconditionally  ?  Do 
you  surrender  absolutely  ?" 

Again  he  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 


MARY'S  VOICE  263 

"Then  it  shall  be  so,"  said  Mary.  He  fancied  that 
his  ear  caught  and  held  for  an  instant  a  note  of  triumph, 
and  as  this  melted  upon  the  silence,  he  heard  a  strain 
of  music,  exquisitely  sweet  and  penetrating,  a  celestial 
harmony  so  sublimated  in  quality  and  tone  that  it 
seemed  to  bear  the  same  relation  to  earthly  music 
which  the  ampler  Life  and  Love  of  the  other  side  bore 
to  the  life  and  love  of  earth.  The  beauty  of  it,  its 
surpassing  significance  as  a  medium  of  expression, 
its  inevitable  divergence,  as  a  message,  from  the  master- 
pieces so  familiar  to  him,  transcended  finite  imagination 
and  feeling.  He  could  only  compare  it  to  the  tones 
and  semi-tones  of  Mary's  voice,  which  he  had  recog- 
nized instantly  as  hers  and  yet  so  purified  as  to  be 
entirely  different. 

As  her  lips  touched  his  he  lost  consciousness. 


BOOK  III 


"And  ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall 
make  you  free." 

ST.  JOHN,  vin.  32. 

"  We  have  shewn  that  amid  much  deception  and  self- 
deception^  fraud  and  illusion,  veritable  manifestations 
do  reach  us  from  beyond  the  grave.  The  central  claim 
of  Christianity  is  thus  confirmed,  as  never  before.  If 
our  own  friends,  men  like  ourselves,  can  sometimes 
return  to  tell  us  of  love  and  hope,  a  mightier  Spirit 
may  well  have  used  the  eternal  laws  with  a  more  com- 
manding power.  There  is  nothing  to  hinder  the  rev- 
erent faith  that  though  we  be  all  '  Children  of  the 
Most  Highest,9  He  came  nearer  than  we,  by  some 
space  by  us  immeasurable,  to  That  which  is  infinitely 
far.  There  is  nothing  to  hinder  the  devout  conviction 
that  He  of  His  own  act  'took  upon  Him  the  form  of 
a  servant,1  and  was  made  flesh  for  our  salvation, 
foreseeing  the  earthly  travail  and  the  eternal  crown. 
*  Surely  before  this  descent  into  generation,'  says  Plo- 
timus,'*we  existed  in  the  intelligible  world;  being 
other  than  now  we  are,  and  some  of  us  Gods ;  clear 
souls,  and  minds  unmixed  with  all  existence;  parts  of 
the  Intelligible,  nor  severed  thence;  nor  are  we  severed 


even  now.9 


F.  W.  H.  MYERS. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   CONDITIONS 

UPON  the  morning  after  David's  accident, 
Mollie  Archdale  stood  opposite  a  glass,  smil- 
ing at  the  image  reflected  therein  with  some- 
thing of  the  complacency  of  Narcissus.  Only  the  night 
before  an  amorous  and  enterprising  youth,  whose 
compliments  were  sincere  if  crude,  had  said:  "I  sup- 
pose whenever  you  want  to  give  yourself  a  jolly  good 
time,  you  stand  in  front  of  a  looking-glass."  Mollie 
had  answered,  "  Of  course."  The  youth  was  handsome 
and  he  danced  quite  too  beautifully,  but  every  debu- 
tante knew  that  he  was  'impossible*  from  a  matrimonial 
point  of  view.  Mollie  crossed  the  room  and  picked  up 
the  book  which  she  had  been  reading  in  bed.  Holding 
it  gingerly  in  her  pretty  hands,  she  made  a  grimace, 
before  she  slipped  it  into  a  drawer.  Then,  from  the 
same  drawer,  she  took  a  cartoon  which  had  recently 
appeared  in  a  society  paper.  The  subject  was  a 
man  overlooking  and  overshadowing  a  vast  country. 
Underneath  was  the  legend,  "Coming  men  cast  their 
shadows  before,"  and  below,  in  very  black  type, 
"His  Excellency." 

Staring  at  the  cartoon,  Mollie  smiled  and  frowned. 
A  little  laugh  bubbled  from  her  lips,  and  she  murmured: 
"Their  Excellencies."  A  close  observer  might  have 

267 


268  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

noticed  that  her  fingers  just  trembled,  as  she  examined 
more  carefully  the  masterful  face  which  seemed  to 
stare  back  at  her  with  a  persistency  of  gaze  even 
greater  than  her  own. 

It  was  Henry  Middleton,  of  whom  mention  has  been 
made.  He  belonged  to  a  small  group  of  Balliol  men, 
of  which  Newsom  was  a  member.  Middleton  had 
succeeded  as  conspicuously  as  poor  Newsom  had 
failed,  Newsom  having  taken  higher  honours  as  a 
scholar.  Middleton  entered  public  life  as  the  pri- 
vate secretary  of  the  Prime  Minister.  His  subsequent 
career  is  so  well  known  that  we  may  be  excused  from 
dwelling  upon  it  in  detail,  but  it  may  be  said  that  his 
success  as  a  public  man  surprised  everybody  who 
knew  him,  except  his  tutor  and,  possibly,  himself. 
Heavy  in  manner  and  appearance,  dull  in  ordinary 
conversation,  he  was  gifted  with  an  extraordinary 
capacity  for  coordinating  facts  and  setting  them  forth 
in  a  quiet,  deep,  convincing  voice.  Because  he  was 
sincere  and  very  rich,  the  public  were  of  opinion  that 
Middleton  had  no  axe  to  grind  other  than  the  official 
one  with  which  he  decapitated  the  hydra  heads  of 
ignorance  and  dishonesty.  For  the  rest,  he  was  thirty- 
six  years  of  age;  and  Felicia  Stormont,  who  had  known 
him  since  he  was  a  boy  at  Eton,  affirmed  that  he  had 
never  been  in  love  till  he  met  Mollie  Archdale. 

It  is  quite  certain  that  he  was  in  love  with  her.  And 
obviously,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  her, 
setting  about  the  accomplishment  of  this  new  desire 
with  the  same  plodding,  indefatigable  persistency 


THE  CONDITIONS  269 

which  had  crowned  other  endeavours  with  success. 
Two  days  after  meeting  Moliie  he  said  to  Mrs.  Stor- 
mont,  imperturbably: 

"Is  this  the  wife  you  promised  to  find  for 
me?" 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Stormont  to  reply 
briskly,  "How  clever  you  are!"  Inwardly,  she  was 
accusing  herself  of  stupidity  in  not  having  foreseen  such 
a  likely  combination.  If  Middleton's  administrative 
abilities  should  justify  a  big  Colonial  appointment, 
the  one  thing  lacking  would  be  a  wife,  a  woman  of 
beauty  and  charm,  not  necessarily  brilliant,  but  young 
and  plastic,  healthy  and  ambitious.  David  Archdale's 
daughter  seemed  to  have  been  expressly  designed  to 
be  his  complement.  To  bring  about  such  a  match 
would  be  a  consummate  triumph. 

"I  am  not  clever,"  Middleton  had  replied,  "but  as 
a  rule  I  get  what  I  want.  Who  is  she  ?" 

"Good  Heavens!  You  don't  know?  Why,  David 
Archdale's  girl,  to  be  sure." 

"And  who  is  David  Archdale  ?  The  name  sounds 
familiar." 

"Sounds!  You  have  picked  the  right  word. 
Stringed  instruments,  brazen  trumpets,  voices  of 
men  and  women,  have  sounded  that  name  from 
pole  to  pole.  At  this  moment,  my  poor  Henry, 
you  are  wearing  an  'Archdale'  collar.  He  wrote 
the  'Peer  and  the  Peri*  and  'When  Cuckoos 
Call'." 

"Did  he?" 


270  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"You  are  brutally  ignorant,  as  Matthew  Arnold 
once  said  of  a  famous  dean  and  schoolmaster." 

"True." 

"  Therefore  it  behooves  you  to  marry  a  wife  who 
knows  what  you  don't." 

'True  again.  I  suppose  all  your  drones  are  buzzing 
about  Miss  Archdale?" 

"  I  do  not  encourage  —  drones." 

"She's  a  radiant  creature." 

"Am  I  to  tell  little  Miss  Honey-pot  that  you  say  so  ?" 

"I'll  tell  her  myself,  thank  you." 

Mrs.  Stormont  smiled  discreetly.  At  luncheon,  upon 
the  following  day,  Mollie  found  herself  next  to  the  great 
man  of  whose  remarkable  achievements  in  and  out  of 
the  House  of  Commons  she  had  received  a  very  prettily 
worded  account,  ending  as  follows: 

"The  extraordinary  thing  about  Henry  Middleton 
is  that  he  seems  absolutely  indifferent  to  us.  No 
woman,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  challenged  his  inter- 
est. If  he  doesn't  utter  a  word,  don't  be  surprised." 

"Of  course  he  won't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mollie. 

To  her  astonishment  and  pride  he  talked  to  nobody 
else. 

Within  a  week  the  girl  guessed  what  he  wanted, 
and  it  was  made  plain  what  he  could  give  in  return. 
Mollie,  let  it  be  remembered,  had  left  the  small  world 
of  Art,  which  holds  so  many  agreeable,  interesting 
people,  for  the  infinitely  larger  world  of  politics  and 
affairs.  Meeting  upon  intimate  terms  the  men  who 
were  making  history  instead  of  painting  pictures  and 


THE  CONDITIONS  271 

writing  plays,  she  had  been  impressed  by  a  new  point 
of  view,  which  effectively  dwarfed  the  old.  Apparently, 
her  Tritons  were  minnows  in  the  estimation  of  million- 
aires and  statesmen,  small  fry  to  be  welcomed  with 
a  patronizing  smile  and  dismissed  with  a  careless  nod. 
Not  many  young  girls  came  to  Stormont  Lodge,  but 
even  those  with  hair  down  their  backs  knew  who 
*  counted*  and  who  didn't.  Henry  Middleton,  for 
instance,  *  counted'  enormously.  The  cartoonist  sum- 
med up  the  situation  when  he  portrayed  him  over- 
shadowing a  continent.  His  wife  would  be  a  very 
great  lady  indeed. 

Mollie  laid  aside  the  cartoon,  and  picked  up  the 
photograph  of  her  father.  As  she  did  so,  her  face 
softened.  No  one  could  doubt  her  affection  for  and 
pride  in  her  father.  She  was  reflecting  that  she  must 
have  inherited  ambition  from  him,  and  that  he  would 
be  pleased  to  see  his  daughter  at  home  in  the  seats 
of  the  mighty.  Nevertheless,  conscience  pricked  her, 
because  she  guessed  that  a  too  prompt  acceptance  of 
Mrs.  Stormont's  offer  had  distressed  him.  Well,  the 
future  would  vindicate  her. 

At  this  moment,  she  had  a  vision  of  a  wedding  in 
Westminster  Abbey  beneath  the  eyes  and  aegis  of 
Royalty!  She  saw  herself,  upon  her  father's  arm, 
advancing  to  the  altar,  toward  a  man  who  overshadowed 
continents! 

A  tap  upon  the  door  put  to  flight  the  strains  of 
"The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden."  Mrs.  Storm- 
ont entered. 


2/2  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

At  once,  Mollie  perceived  that  something  serious  had 
taken  place.  Her  friend  kissed  her  in  silence,  and, 
leading  her  to  the  bed,  sat  down  beside  her. 

"What  has  happened?"  gasped  Mollie.  "Tell  me 
quick." 

"There  has  been  an  accident  in  France." 

"To  father?" 

"Yes." 

"He  is  not  — dead?" 

"A  telegram  has  just  come  to  say  that  he 
is  still  alive.  Mr.  Fermor  is  dead.  The  accident 
was  terrible.  The  papers  this  morning  report 
your  father's  death,  but  that  evidently  is  a 
mistake." 

Mrs.  Stormont  added  details,  softening  them  as  much 
as  possible.  The  telegram  had  stated  that  the  injured 
man  was  unconscious  and  likely  to  remain  so  till  the  end. 
Mollie  seemed  to  be  stunned.  She  did  not  weep;  she 
accepted  passively  kisses  and  protestations  of  sympathy 
and  affection.  When,  at  length,  her  piteous  silence 
provoked  the  exclamation  "Child,  child,  can't  you  say 
something  —  anything?"  she  muttered  almost  inaudi- 
bly:  "It  is  a  judgment  on  me." 

"A  judgment  on  — you  ?" 

"  I  left  him  to  come  here.  I  wanted  to  come.  I  was 
getting  bored  at  home.  At  the  time  I  saw  something 
in  father's  face.  He  would  have  liked  me  to  stay. 
But  he  was  too  proud  to  say  so.  I'm  sure  he  knew 
that  I  wanted  to  come  to  you.  Did  he?" 

Mrs.   Stormont  prevaricated. 


THE  CONDITIONS  273 

"It  was  natural  at  your  age  that  you  should  want 
things  he  could  not  give." 

"Natural  to  want  to  leave  the  kindest  father  in  the 
world  ?" 

"  Natural  to  want  change." 

"I  left  him,  and  now  he  has  left  me." 

She  began  sobbing,  refusing  to  be  comforted.  Mrs. 
Stormont  wisely  tried  other  means  to  stem  a  torrent  of 
grief  and  self-reproach. 

"We  start  for  Blois  as  soon  as  possible.  You  must 
get  ready.  My  maid  is  packing  my  things.  Shall  I 
help  you  to  pack  yours?" 

"Please,"  said  Mollie. 

During  the  journey  to  Paris,  Mollie  prayed  that  she 
might  be  permitted  to  see  her  father  alive.  Being 
still  a  child  in  many  respects,  she  desired  to  bargain 
with  Omnipotence,  professing  herself  eager  to  pay  to 
the  uttermost  farthing  whatever  might  be  exacted. 
Let  her  be  given  the  consolation  of  asking  his  pardon 
and  receiving  it.  One  glance  from  his  eyes  would 
suffice. 

As  they  drove  to  Victoria  the  boys  were    shouting: 

"David  Archdale  still  alive!" 

At  the  station  the  posters  of  an  evening  paper 
proclaimed  the  fact  in  huge  black  letters  upon  a  yellow 
ground.  Mollie  said  to  Mrs.  Stormont,  "Does  the 
public  really  care?" 

Mrs.  Stormont  replied:  "He  delighted  millions  of 
tired  men  and  women.  Of  course  they  care." 


274  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Between    the    constant    reiteration    of   her    prayer, 
Mollie  tried  to  see  her  father  and  herself.     Glorifying 
him,  she   abased    herself.     Mrs.  Stormont,  gazing  at 
her  pale  beautiful  face,  marvelled  at  the  change  which 
a  few  hours  had  wrought.    The  child,  beneath  sorrow's 
touch,  had  become  a  woman.    Once  Mollie  whispered: 
"I  never  told  Father  how  much  I  loved  him." 
At  Paris,  they  learned  that  David  was  still  alive;  the 
doctors  were  careful  to  add  nothing  more. 

Rushing  through  the  valley  of  the  Loire,  Mrs. 
Stormont  saw  a  lovely  peaceful  country  revealing  itself 
at  earliest  dawn;  woods  and  fields  sparkling  with  light 
and  air  and  dew.  The  intimate  charm  of  a  pastoral 
landscape  appeals,  with  poignant  significance,  to  the 
worldly  and  weary,  because  they  have  forsaken  it, 
because  they  know  that  they  have  excluded  themselves 
from  a  paradise  to  which  with  rare  exceptions  they 
can  never  return. 

"If  I  were  not  here,"  thought  Mrs.  Stormont, 
"I  should  be  just  going  to  bed  in  London." 

She  attempted  to  consider  the  claims  of  the  simple 
life.  It  had  never  appealed  to  a  mind  —  quickened 
at  an  early  age  and  polished  by  continual  friction  - 
which  had  sought  the  new  rather  than  the  true  with 
feverish  interest  and  energy.  Comedy  delighted  Felicia 
Stormont;  upon  Tragedy  she  turned  her  back.  Her 
vitality,  her  superb  health,  her  capacity  for  enjoyment 
had  never  failed.  Mary  Archdale  once  spoke  of 
her  as  a  "  front-seater,"  a  "  first-nighter,"  a  "monopol- 


THE  CONDITIONS  275 

ist."  From  her  youth,  society  had  acclaimed  her  as 
a  leader.  She  admitted  that  she  loved  a  fight,  and  had 
played  with  undiminished  keenness  all  games  save 
the  game  of  love. 

She  worshipped  one  God,  the  Juggernaut  of  Success. 

And  now  she  was  sixty!  Her  doctor  had  said  that 
she  must  do  less  and  less  during  the  years  to  come. 

She  wondered  if  she  could  be  happy  alone  with 
Mollie  in  some  pretty  cottage  in  the  country.  Did  she 
love  the  child  ?  Was  it  possible  that  maternal  instincts, 
long  dormant,  were  now  about  to  assert  themselves  ? 
And,  if  so,  was  it  not  part  of  her  philosophy  to  cherish 
and  develop  them  as  being  a  new  and  exciting  expe- 
rience ?  Mollie,  forlorn  and  wretched  in  her  corner, 
began  to  clutch  at  her  heart-strings. 

The  train  rocked  and  rattled  over  a  track  not  too 
well  ballasted  as  it  sped  through  the  vineyards  and 
cornfields  of  Touraine.  So  also  Felicia  Stormont 
had  rattled  and  prattled  through  pleasant  years,  and, 
now,  when  she  was  approaching  her  destination  the 
noise  and  pace  and  cinematographic  changes  of  scene 
were  becoming  stale  and  tedious.  She  possessed  hosts 
of  friends.  Was  there  one  whom  she  truly  loved 
and  who  truly  loved  her  ? 

Upon  arrival  at  Blois,  Mollie  was  told  that  part  of 
her  prayer  had  been  granted.  David  still  lived,  and 
his  condition  was  slightly  less  critical.  The  doctor  at 
the  hospital,  Achille  Sarthe,  a  small,  dapper,  very 
wide-awake  Frenchman,  received  the  ladies. 


276  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"We  believed,"  he  said,  "that  life  was  extinct. 
It  is  the  most  remarkable  case  of  suspended  animation 
that  has  come  before  my  notice,  and,  Mesdames,  I  was 
a  pupil  of  the  illustrious  Charcot.  I  studied  at  the  Sal- 
petriere.  In  short,  Monsieur  was  laid  out  ready  for  burial 
when  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ? — the  vital  spark  seemed 
to  flicker  back.  The  affair  is  of  the  most  amazing!" 

"He  is  conscious  ?" 

"No.  He  barely  breathes,  but  the  temperature  is 
falling." 

"Thank  God!"  exclaimed  Mollie. 

Sarthe  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Stormont,  who  remained 
silent.  Presently,  Mollie  was  taken  to  a  room  to  lie 
down.  Sarthe  would  not  allow  her  to  see  her  father. 

"At  the  first  possible  moment,  Mademoiselle,  I 
will  take  you  to  him.  You  must  trust  me." 

But,  alone  with  Mrs.  Stormont,  he  went  into  details. 
The  body  had  been  cruelly  crushed,  and  the  head 
also  had  sustained  injuries. 

"It  is  almost  certain,"  he  added,  "that  the  optic 
nerves  are  destroyed.  If  he  recovers  he  will  be  blind 
and  a  cripple  for  life." 

Mrs.  Stormont  hesitated,  and  then  said  gently: 

"It  would  be  better  for  him  and  his  daughter  if  he 
died?" 

"A  thousand  times — yes.  Mademoiselle  is  so 
young,  so  pretty,  so  charming.  An  only  child,  you  say, 
Madame  ?  Well,  if  he  lives,  she  must  become  his  slave. 
Alas!  life  is  an  abominable  thing  incases  like  these." 

Mrs.  Stormont  inclined  her  head. 


THE  CONDITIONS  277 

Three  days  passed.  Upon  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  day,  David  opened  his  lips  and  whispered: 

"Mary?" 

The  nurse  answered  in  French,  explaining  his  con- 
dition in  a  few  words  and  enjoining  silence.  By  a 
sign  David  showed  that  he  understood,  that  con- 
sciousness had  returned,  that  he  was  sane. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mollie  was  summoned.  When 
she  kissed  him  he  muttered,  "Is  it  Mollie?" 

"It  is  Mollie,"  she  whispered.  "Your  own  Mollie, 
who  loves  you." 

During  the  week  that  followed  he  lay  semi-con- 
scious, knowing  little  of  any  feeling  other  than  acute 
pain,  and  that  his  shattered  flesh  was  being  tenderly 
cared  for.  Bandages  covered  his  eyes  and  most  parts 
of  his  body.  One  by  one  they  were  removed.  And 
then  the  truth  was  broken  to  him  by  his  child. 

He  was  incurably  blind. 

Sarthe  had  prepared  Mollie  for  a  piteous  scene. 
But  David  exhibited  remarkable  fortitude.  Sarthe 
explained  this  astonishing  resignation: 

"He  does  not  yet  realize.  He  has  not  recovered 
from  the  shock  to  the  brain  cells." 

But  the  next  day,  as  Mollie  sat  beside  him,  David 
said  quietly: 

"I  have  been  spared  to  finish  'Solomon's  Garden." 

From  this  moment  he  made  rapid  progress.  Very 
soon  he  was  able  to  ask  questions  which  Sarthe 


278  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

answered.  David  could  remember  nothing  except 
that  last  vivid  impression  of  the  granite  wall  racing 
at  the  car. 

"The  automobile  was  utterly  smashed,"  said  Sarthe. 
"And  poor  Monsieur  Fermor,  too.  Near  the  wall 
was  a  heap  of  weeds.  You  must  have  pitched  on  that, 
and  then  rolled  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  where  two 
peasants  found  you." 

"Two  peasants  ?" 

Some  inflection  of  his  voice  challenged  Sarthe's 
attention. 

"Yes;  two  peasants  were  passing.  They  brought 
you  here.  Honest  fellows!  It  seems  that  your  pocket- 
book,  full  of  notes,  was  lying  beside  you.  I  have  it 
safe." 

"My  pocket-book?     How  odd!" 

"Odd?" 

"  I  seem  to  remember  vaguely  what  you  tell  me." 

"Impossible." 

"And  then?" 

"We  believed  you  to  be  quite  dead  for  several  hours. 
We  tried  the  usual  tests." 

"  I  seem  to  remember  that  I  was  dead.     Everything 
else  is  shadowy,  but  I  remember  the  smash,  and  being 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  two  peasants,  and  - 
and  —  being  dead." 

"Monsieur,  don't  try  to  remember  anything 
more. " 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  remember,"  said  David. 

A  month  passed.     Mrs.  Stormont  returned  to  London 


THE  CONDITIONS  279 

upon  the  day  when  David  was  moved  to  a  small  cottage 
overlooking  the  Loire.  Throughout  the  warm  June 
days  he  would  lie  upon  a  couch  placed  beneath  a 
weeping  willow,  whose  branches  drooped  over  the 
river.  Mollie  ministered  to  him  devotedly,  aflame 
to  solace  and  serve,  jealous  even  of  the  nurse  in 
attendance.  Mrs.  Stormont,  taking  leave  of  her,  had 
said: 

"When  your  father  is  strong  enough  to  be  left  with 
the  Pignerols,  you  must  come  to  me  for  a  change." 

"I    shan't    leave    him,"    Mollie    replied. 

"You  have  become  very  dear  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Stormont:  "so  dear,"  she  added  quietly,  "that 
you  must  allow  me  to  make  your  life  as  easy  as 
possible." 

Mollie  thanked  her  and  kissed  her,  but  she  whispered, 
in  the  voice  so  curiously  like  Mary's:  "Perhaps  my  life 
has  been  made  too  easy.  I  have  been  a  selfish  little 
beast,  and  —  thank  God!  —  I  know  it." 

After  Mrs.  Stormont's  departure,  David  spoke 
warmly  of  her  kindness.  When  Mollie  remained 
silent,  he  asked  wonderingly: 

"Wasn't  she  kind  to  you?" 

"Too  kind.  Father,  it  makes  me  hot  with  shame 
when  I  think  of  how  I  gobbled  up  everything  she 
offered.  Kind  ?  If  you  could  have  seen  my  room. 
It  was  done  up  expressly  for  me.  All  in  white  and 
blue  —  a  sort  of  bonboniere." 

"In  white  and  blue?"  repeated  David,  interroga- 
tively. 


28o  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"There  was  even  a  pale  blue  carpet." 

"Stop!" 

The  word  was  spoken  so  imperatively  that  Mollie 
was  startled.  To  her  utter  confounding,  David  said, 
laboriously,  "Do  you  read  in  bed?" 

"Sometimes."  She  blushed,  but  the  blush  vanished 
in  astonishment  when  David  continued  in  the  same 
hesitating,  heavy  tone: 

"  I  remember  a  room  in  blue  and  white,  and  of  you 
lying  in  bed,  asleep,  with  a  book  upon  the  coverlet. 
Did  I  dream  it?" 

"You  never  saw  my  room." 

"  Perhaps  you  described  it  to  me." 

"I  am  quite  sure  I  didn't." 

"For  an  instant  I  seemed  to  see  the  room.  Now 
it  has  faded.  My  head  is  still  queer.  I  —  I  haven't 
mentioned  it  to  you  or  Sarthe,  but  no  music  comes  to 
me,  not  a  note." 

"Good  gracious,  as  if  it  could!" 

"  You  think  it  will  come  back  ?  '  Solomon' s  Garden ' 
must  be  finished." 

"Of  course  it  will." 

"But  if  it  — shouldn't?" 

"Father!" 

"Long  ago,  I  told  your  mother  that  the  darkness 
terrified  me  when  I  was  a  child,  because  of  the  silence. 
'Solomon's  Garden'  was  written  in  the  sunshine. 
Mollie,  it  will  be  awful  if  the  music  does  not  come 
back." 

She   heard   his   voice,    so   finely   controlled    during 


THE  CONDITIONS  281 

weeks  of  pain,  sob  in  his  throat;  and  the  sob  annihilated 
the  last  barrier  between  them.  She  understood  all 
that  had  been  suppressed  —  weakness,  fear,  horror! 
To  that  weakness  and  terror,  the  strength  and  courage 
dormant  in  her  responded.  David  felt  her  soft  cheek 
against  his,  her  firm  young  arms  encircled  his  body. 
Mary's  voice,  which  had  sustained  him  during  those 
never-to-be-forgotten  days  when  failure  and  despair 
impended,  thrilled  again  in  his  ears. 

"  Darling  father,  the  music  will  come  back  when  you 
are  ready  to  receive  it;  and  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you. 
I've  been  practising  writing  music.  I'm  getting  such 
a  dab  at  it.  When  the  pixies  begin  to  do  their  duty 
again,  and  it's  very  thoughtful  of  them  to  have  let  you 
alone,  I  shall  be  ready  to  take  down  what  they  say.  I 
shall  love  working  with  you." 

"You  blessed  child!" 

"Blessed!  Didn't  you  hate  me,  when  I  left  you  — 
didn't  you?" 

"Hate  you?" 

"I  saw  what  I  had  done  too  late,  and  I  hadn't  the 
pluck  to  say  so.  And  at  Mrs.  Stormont's  I  thought 
of  my  food,  and  my  pretty  clothes,  and  of  the  big  splash 
I  was  going  to  make.  There  —  it's  out.  I  feel  heaps 
better.  You  asked  me  just  now  if  I  read  in  bed. 
Father,  I  read  two  or  three  books  which  would  have 
given  you  fits  to  see  in  my  hand.  Are  you  appallingly 
shocked?" 

He  held  her  tightly  to  him. 

"  Men  of  my  age  are  not  easily  shocked.     As  between 


282  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

you  and  me,  Mollie,  perhaps  the  only  absolutely  shock- 
ing thing  would  be  deceit  and  hypocrisy." 

Upon  the  following  day,  he  saw  Sarthe  alone.  The 
little  man  was  free  from  the  prejudice  and  self-com- 
placent cocksureness  of  many  country  practitioners. 
David  knew  that  he  was  an  enthusiast  upon  psychology: 
familiar  with  and  keenly  interested  in  the  work  of  Bern- 
stein, Janet,  Pitres  and  Voisin:  empty  names  to  David 
till  he  was  made  to  understand  how  profoundly  their 
studies  might  be  brought  to  bear  upon  his  peculiar  case. 

"I  had  another  singular  experience  yesterday,"  began 
David.  "My  daughter  described  a  room  into  which 
in  the  flesh  I  have  most  certainly  never  entered.  Yet 
I  remembered  it  mistily,  as  I  remember  the  peasants 
finding  my  body  and  the  pocket-book.  And  since, 
again  and  again,  I  have  had  a  glimpse  of  other  things 
which  seem  to  flash  before  me  and  disappear." 

"Yes.  yes.     A  common  experience." 

"Where  was  my  mind,  when  my  body  lay  as  you 
supposed  dead  ?" 

"Your  mind  alone  can  answer  that  question,  your 
inner  mind,  which  forgets  nothing." 

"  My  inner  mind  ?  My  father-in-law,  Professor 
Pignerol,  is  always  talking  of  the  inner  mind." 

"What!  Louis  Pignerol  is  your  father-in-law?  We 
used  to  think  highly  of  Louis  Pignerol;  but  he  is  a 
Quixote  trying  to  reconcile  what  can  be  observed  in 
this  material  world  with  dogmas  and  doctrines  which 
depend  entirely  upon  ill-supported  tradition  and  faith." 


THE  CONDITIONS  283 

"  I  dismissed  his  theories  as  mere  idle  speculations." 

"You  dismissed  them,  Monsieur?  Let  me  tell  you 
that  our  thoughts  and  the  thoughts  of  others  are  not 
to  be  dismissed.  They  remain.  That  has  been 
proved  to  the  hilt  by  men  whose  authority  cannot  be 
questioned,  by  the  most  enlightened  psychologists  all 
over  the  world.  The  inner  mind  never  forgets.  When 
that  is  fully  realized,  we  may  be  more  careful  about  our 
thoughts  and  the  thoughts  of  others.  For  the  rest, 
it  is  quite  possible  that  your  mind  did  leave  your  body. 
I  could  cite  a  dozen  well-attested  cases  in  support  of  it. 
Also,  in  nearly  all  these  cases  of  spiritual  activity 
remembrance  is  suspended  when  the  brain  resumes 
its  functions." 

"  Has  it  been  proved  that  we  have  two  minds  ? " 

"I  thought  the  duality  of  the  human  mind  was 
established  everywhere.  Certainly  you  have  two  minds; 
the  one  works  through  the  senses.  The  other  works 
when  the  senses  are  in  abeyance.  For  example,  the 
inner  mind  can  see  and  hear  and  touch  and  smell  when 
those  senses  have  been  destroyed." 

"You  affirm  that  I  could  see  with  my  inner 
mind?" 

"The  inner  mind  of  a  blind  man  in  the  hypnotic 
state  can  be  made  to  travel  to  distant  countries  and 
bring  back  reliable  information.  It  is,  in  short,  a 
separate  entity  independent  of  bodily  functions." 

"Will  you  hypnotize  me?" 

Sarthe  hesitated. 

"I  would  rather  not,  Monsieur.     You  are  making 


284  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

a  remarkable  recovery.     And  I  believe  in  leaving  well 
enough  alone." 

He  hurried  away,  gesticulating  and  muttering  to 
himself,  conscious  that  he  had  put  from  him  an  immense 
temptation.  He  would  have  liked  to  hypnotize  his 
patient. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    CREED    OF   A    HAPPY   MAN 

THE  Professor  —  who  would  have  come  to  Blois 
had  he  not  been  chained  to  a  schoolmaster's 
desk — was  the  first  to  welcome  David  when 
he  touched  English  soil.  His  genial  tones  rang  out: 

"  Mon  fihy  you  look  better  than  I  had  dared  to  expect. 
What  a  vitality  is  yours!  Well,  well,  the  holidays  have 
begun;  the  long  days  which  we  shall  spend  together. 
I  have  planned  pleasant  things/' 

David  remembered  that  this  summer  vacation  was 
to  have  been  devoted  to  the  magnum  opus.  How 
cheerfully  Pignerol  laid  aside  his  own  work,  whenever 
in  matters  small  or  great  he  might  be  of  service  to 
others ! 

Pignerol  then  told  David  that  many  distinguished 
persons  had  travelled  to  Southampton  to  greet  him. 
A  committee  was  in  waiting  at  the  South- Western  Hotel. 
Outside  the  docks  a  crowd  had  collected.  David  heard 
once  more  the  cheers  of  the  multitude,  who  acclaimed 
him  as  if  he  were  a  conquering  hero  instead  of  a  shat- 
tered invalid,  limping  painfully  upon  crutches  and 
guided  by  the  hand  of  a  girl  of  eighteen.  Presently 
he  was  listening  to  protestations  of  friendship,  to  the 
reading  of  a  gracious  telegram  from  his  Sovereign,  to 
the  blare  of  a  band  playing  one  of  his  popular  marches. 

285 


286  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Thelluson  happened  to  be  a  member  of  the  com- 
mittee. 

"Old  Wrest  and  I  were  at  the  Buskin  when  the  news 
came  over  the  'ticker*  that  you  were  smashed  to  bits. 
We  were  appalled." 

"Wrest  and  you  were  at  the  Buskin?" 

Thelluson  was  struck  by  the  odd  expression  upon 
David's  face.  He  continued  cordially: 

"Wrest  and  Newsom  and  I.  David,  my  boy,  gal- 
lant fellows  like  you  aren't  easily  killed,  eh  ?" 

"Were  you  in  the  smoking-room  ?" 

"We're  always  in  the  smoking-room  at  ten.  Wrest 
couldn't  come  down  to-day,  but  he's  at  your  service, 
if  you  want  anything  done.  Hang  ity  we're  all  only 
too  anxious  to  help.  Man  of  many  friends  you  are!" 

Others  said  the  same  thing.  At  Sherborne,  where 
the  reception  was  of  a  domestic  character,  old  fellows 
pressed  his  hands  who  could  remember  the  days 
when  he  sang  "Oh,  for  the  wings  of  a  dove,"  and 
added  so  materially  to  the  collections.  Miss  Rachel 
Callow  brought  flowers  and  faltering  greetings.  David 
felt  himself  to  be  borne  away,  inundated,  by  a  tidal 
wave  of  pity,  sympathy,  and  emotion.  When  he  reached 
Pignerol's  house,  he  was  obliged  to  lie  down. 

"What  a  welcome!"  said  the  Professor.  "You  are 
tired  out,  but  there  is  no  tonic  like  affection.  People 
love  you,  mon  fits.  That  is  a  great  consolation,  my 
poor  boy,  a  true  triumph." 

"If  I  could  have  seen  their  faces." 

"With  your  imagination  that  is  easy.     We  will  talk 


THE  CREED  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN   287 

of  this  when  you  are  rested,  but  Mollie  has  written  to 
me.  Her  letters  were  full  of  your  courage  and  patience. 
David,  my  dear,  dear  son,  you  have  won  a  great 
victory." 

"  It's  not  won  yet,"  said  David  grimly. 

Next  day  he  remained  in  bed,  limp  in  mind  and 
body,  unable  to  concentrate  thought  upon  either 
present,  past,  or  future.  The  three  seemed  to  be 
inextricably  mingled:  a  tangle  of  memories,  ambitions, 
and  speculations.  The  room  in  which  he  lay  was  so 
familiar;  he  had  occupied  it  often  before  his  marriage 
and  after;  and  —  now  —  a  different  man  seemed  to 
stare  at  the  engravings  upon  the  walls,  seeing  nothing, 
but  knowing  —  because  he  had  asked  the  question  - 
that  not  an  article  of  furniture  had  been  moved. 

The  silence  of  Sherborne  oppressed  him.  In  Blois, 
during  the  daytime,  he  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
innumerable  sounds  of  a  French  town,  which  linked 
him,  helpless  though  he  was,  to  the  activities  without. 

At  his  request,  he  spent  the  morning  alone.  But, 
immediately  after  luncheon,  Mollie  came  to  sit  with  him, 
bringing  with  her  an  atmosphere  of  youth,  and  high 
spirits,  and  excitement,  prattling  eagerly  of  old  friends 
and  the  things  which  engrossed  them.  A  game  of  tennis 
had  been  promised.  She  had  bought  a  new  racquet. 
The  lawn  was  in  tip-top  condition. 

"It  is  good  to  be  back,"  she  concluded. 

David  did  not  keep  her  long,  divining  her  wish  to 
be  out  of  doors  in  the  sunshine  where  she  might  forget, 


288  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

poor  child!  his  darkness  which  had  cast  its  shadow  over 
her.  He  heard  a  gay  laugh,  as  she  ran  downstairs 
to  join  her  friends,  leaving  behind  some  splendid  roses 
sent  from  the  Castle.  Throughout  the  afternoon  kindly 
messages,  with  or  without  flowers,  were  arriving  at 
Pignerol's  house,  and  telegrams  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  Kingdom. 

Many  friends  slipped  in  for  a  few  minutes'  talk: 
talk  which  never  varied,  which  harped  pleasantly  but 
interminably  upon  his  recovery  and  the  great  gain 
thereby  to  the  world.  One  and  all  seemed  to  take 
for  granted  that  he  would  write  more  musical  comedies, 
more  songs  such  as  "In  Cowslip  Time,"  more  waltzes 
and  polkas  whose  very  names  seemed  to  tinkle  exasper- 
atingly. 

After  dinner,  alone  with  Pignerol,  he  said:  "I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  service.  The  score  of  'Solomon's 
Garden'  is  in  my  music  room  at  Portland  Place.  Will 
you  go  up  to  town  and  fetch  it  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"I  shall  finish  it,  and  produce  it.  Mollie  and  I 
have  been  talking  of  nothing  else." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  this.  How  Fermor  would 
have  rejoiced." 

"Oddly  enough,  I  can't  remember  a  bar  of  it  — 
except  in  my  dreams.  At  the  moment  of  waking  I 
hear  some  theme;  and  then  it  goes.  What  an  odd 
thing  remembrance  is!" 

"Say  rather  recollection.  Remembrance  is  con- 
stant, recollection  fickle  and  unreliable." 


THE  CREED  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN      289 

David  hesitated,  and  then  added  slowly:  "I  want 
to   talk  to  you   about  many  things.     You   can   help 


me." 


"Willingly,  willingly." 

"You  know  that  those  doctors  over  there  believed 
me  to  be  dead." 

"So  Mollie  wrote." 

"What  Sarthe  calls  the  inner  mind  —  I  prefer  the 
old-fashioned  word  'soul'  —  appears  to  be  most  active 
when  the  senses  are  in  abeyance." 

"Of  course." 

"  What  was  my  soul  doing  when  my  body  lay  dead  ? " 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  I  am  convinced  that  it  was  on  a  journey. 
Thelluson  told  me  yesterday  that  he  and  Wrest  were 
in  the  club  smoking-room  when  the  news  of  my  death 
reached  them.  Before  the  words  were  out  of  his 
mouth,  I  knew  it;  I  remembered  somehow  seeing 
Wrest  and  Thelluson  and  Newsom." 

"This  is  most  interesting." 

"Not  a  day  passes  but  some  chance  allusion,  a  word, 
perhaps,  sets  vibrating  a  chord  of  memory.  I  am 
beginning  to  believe  that  I  saw  my  own  body  picked  up 
and  placed  in  a  cart,  that  I  walked  into  the  club,  that 
I  stood  by  Mollie's  bed." 

"Why  not?" 

"Suppose  I  was  dead." 

"Ah,  my  son,  that  is  a  wonderful  thought.** 

"Mary  and  I  promised  each  other  that  we  would 
come  back.  She  did  not  corne  back.  Or  rather,  if 


2QQ  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

she  did,  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  But  I  swore  that  I 
would  come  back,  if  I  could.  Perhaps  I  did." 

"In  my  opinion  it  is  possible." 

"You  must  be  honest  with  me." 

"David,  I  have  made  researches  which  I  venture  to 
hope  may  help  to  establish,  upon  a  scientific  basis,  the 
law  of  continuity  of  life.  For  all  time  this  has  been 
the  creed  of  the  human  race:  a  tremendous  argument  in 
its  favour.  To-day,  the  men  of  greatest  intelligence 
are  demanding  proofs  other  than  those  which  have 
satisfied  generations  of  thinkers.  I  believe  that  these 
proofs  will  be  forthcoming,  because  the  demand  for 
them  is  so  immense  and  so  importunate.  We  are 
knocking  at  a  door  which  must,  sooner  or  later,  be 
opened.  And  myriads  are  approaching  that  door  from 
a  thousand  directions." 

"  Mary  spoke  of  that." 

"Sarthe,  of  course,  has  investigated  seeming  miracles 
which  the  inner  mind  can  accomplish  when  the  normal 
functions  of  the  brain  are  suspended.  The  French 
are  far  ahead  of  us  in  this  particular  field.  Unhappily, 
they  are  divided,  not  in  their  search  for  the  truth, 
but  in  the  conclusions  which  they  have  formulated 
upon  the  mass  of  evidence  so  admirably  sifted  by  them. 
And  the  high  priests  of  science  are  as  dogmatic  and 
obstinate  as  the  high  priests  of  religion.  The  best 
men,  the  most  sincere,  the  most  unselfish,  the  most 
learned,  are  also  the  most  timorous  and  backward  in 
accepting  anything  new  which  may  conflict  with  their 
own  convictions  and  beliefs.  Till  quite  recently, 


THE  CREED  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN   291 

imagination,  which  leads  us  blindfold  to  treasures 
of  knowledge,  has  been  mistrusted  by  investigators 
who  ought  to  have  recognized  it,  as  the  greatest  factor 
in  all  discoveries.  My  old  friends,  the  men  with  whom 
I  worked  in  Paris,  have  denounced  me  as  a  humbug, 
because  I  have  cherished  my  imagination  and  allowed 
to  it  full  scope.  It  has  carried  me  to  heights  —  and 
depths." 

David  sighed.     Then,  after  a  long  pause,  he  said: 

"  I  have  always  wished  to  know  where  you  stand." 

"I  stand  upon  a  mosaic  pavement,  upon  bits  of  what 
I  conceive  to  be  truth  collected  from  all  the  religions 
of  mankind." 

"You  accept  Christ's  divinity  and  resurrection?" 

"I  do." 

"What  else  do  you  believe?" 

"I  shall  attempt  to  tell  you;  my  creed  is  my  dearest 
possession,  but  I  have  never  proclaimed  it,  not  even 
to  my  children.  It  is  part  of  that  creed  to  encourage 
others  to  search  for  their  beliefs  and  not  to  accept 
them  ready-made.  The  early  Christians  paid  for 
their  creed  with  their  lives.  What  do  we  pay  ?  Ob- 
viously, I  lay  myself  open  to  attack,  because  the 
teachers  insist  upon  the  unreliability  of  the  lay  mind. 
And  I,  as  you  know,  am  a  stickler  for  authority  when 
it  concerns  itself  with  matters  of  fact.  Upon  matters 
of  faith,  I  am  willing  to  learn  from  a  child  what  may 
have  been  withheld  from  an  archbishop." 

Pignerol  paused  before  continuing.  Perhaps  he 
was  reflecting  that  a  creed  loses  the  vitality  it  seeks 


292  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

to  express  when  it  becomes  concrete.  And  perhaps 
he  shrank  from  putting  into  words  thoughts  which 
had  been  jealously  guarded  during  a  lifetime.  He  was 
a  modest  as  well  as  a  brave  man,  and  because  he  had 
respected  the  beliefs  of  others,  he  had  the  more  solicitude 
for  his  own. 

"I  was  not  unlike  you,  David,  when  I  left  school. 
I  was  consumed  by  a  desire  to  succeed.  I  studied 
successful  men  and  their  methods.  And  I  soon 
realized  that  concentration  of  will  was  at  the  back  of 
human  achievement.  With  it,  mediocre  men  came 
to  the  front,  without  it  the  most  brilliant  fell  behind. 
I  wanted  to  win  a  scholarship.  But  apparently  I  had 
not  a  chance.  Four  out  of  ten  competitors  were  much 
cleverer  than  I.  But  I  had  the  strongest  will;  and  I 
won.  True,  I  worked  hard,  but  so  did  the  others.  It 
was  an  eye-opener.  It  led  me  to  the  conviction  that 
a  man  can  have  within  reasonable  limits  anything  he 
wants,  if  he  wants  it  with  every  fibre  of  his  being." 
"Would  will-power  restore  my  eyesight?" 
"I  said  within  reasonable  limits.  Those  limits, 
which  I  dare  not  define,  are  greater  than  we  are  as  yet 
aware  of.  The  next  step  was  to  find  out  what  was 
worth  the  wanting  and  having.  I  was  studying  pathol- 
ogy, and  confronted  daily  by  terrible  phases  of  disease 
and  misery.  It  took  me  less  than  six  months  to  decide 
that  health  was  worth  the  wanting.  I  was  thin,  dyspep- 
tic, and  subject  to  tormenting  headaches.  Fortunately, 
I  fell  in  with  a  man  who  had  concentrated  his  intelli- 
gence upon  physical  culture.  He  made  me  throw 


THE  CREED  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN   293 

drugs  out  of  my  window,  and  ordered  me  to  leave  that 
window  open  day  and  night.  Fresh  air,  exercise, 
plenty  of  good  food,  did  the  rest.  I  became  a  strong 
vigorous  man.  Want  number  one  was  satisfied.  I 
passed  my  medical  exams,  and  attacked  psychology 
under  a  famous  savant  now  dead.  He  was  the  unhap- 
piest  of  men.  Again  and  again  he  would  say  to  me: 
'Louis,  look  at  that  workman.  He  is  laughing  and 
singing.  He  is  happy.  He  earns  a  few  francs  a  day. 
Gladly  would  I  change  places  with  him!'  I  begun  to 
study  happiness.  There  is  any  amount  of  happiness 
in  the  world,  David,  but  few  look  for  it  in  the  right 
place.  Children  have  almost  a  monopoly  of  it.  I 
wanted  furiously  to  be  happy.  My  health  was  my 
greatest  asset.  The  right  man  had  helped  me  to  find 
that.  Long  afterward,  the  right  woman  taught  jne 
that  happiness,  like  health,  can  be  had  for  the  wanting, 
but  you  must  want  it  so  intensely  that  other  wants  have 
to  be  abandoned.  I  wanted  furiously  to  be  rich  and 
famous,  so  happiness  evaded  me  for  a  season." 

"Mary  said  once  that  you  could  have  become  rich 
and  famous." 

"  Probably.  I  put  aside  such  ambitions  when  I  saw 
that  they  exacted  sacrifices  too  great.  I  had  to  choose 
between  fame  and  my  wife,  between  wealth  and  my 
children.  I  was  offered  two  positions,  one  of  tremen- 
dous responsibility  in  Calcutta,  and  the  other  my 
mastership  here,  which  insured  a  competence  for  me 
and  mine." 

"You  have  had  no  regrets?" 


294  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  I  am  human  —  there  have  been  moments,  long 
ago  past,  when  I  looked  back  at  the  cities  of  the  plain, 
but  I  chose  right.  I  have  been  a  happy  man.  Be 
happy  and  you  can  hardly  help  being  good.  And 
Happiness  stays  at  home;  Unhappiness  wanders  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  and  to  the  lowest  depths 
of  hell." 

"This  is  the  happiest  household  I  have  ever  known/' 
"Ah!  Happiness  is  as  contagious  as  influenza, 
probably  more  so.  But,  mind  you,  I  could  not  have 
been  really  happy  had  I  not  believed  in  reincarnation. 
The  doctrine  permeates  nearly  all  philosophies  and  has 
been  accepted  by  the  greater  portion  of  the  human 
race.  To  me  it  explains  adequately  the  mysteries 
of  sin  and  suffering,  and  the  apparent  injustice  involved 
in  lives  widely  and  cruelly  differentiated.  I  pass  to 
the  third  clause  in  my  creed.  I  was  standing  firm  upon 
my  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  my  con- 
viction that  it  manifests  itself  through  innumerable 
existences.  I  called  myself  in  those  early  days  a  free- 
lance. I  contended  that  what  I  could  not  understand 
after  patient  study  was  of  no  use  to  me  in  my  present 
existence.  Every  doctrine  which  appealed  strongly 
to  my  reason,  I  tried  to  reconcile  with  my  belief  in  the 
continuity  of  life.  I  went  back  to  Paris  to  study 
the  dual  nature  of  the  mind.  That  became  the  third 
clause  in  my  creed,  confirming  the  others.  We  come 
now  to  my  marriage.  My  wife,  whom  I  adored,  lived 
and  died  a  firm  believer  in  the  divinity  of  Christ.  She 
urged  me  to  restudy  the  New  Testament,  and  step  by 


THE  CREED  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN   295 

step  I  came  to  the  fourth  clause  in  my  creed:  that 
Christianity  is  established  upon  a  scientific  basis." 
"A  scientific  basis  ?" 

"Christ  preached  and  practised  nineteen  hundred 
years  ago  what  we  have  rediscovered  to-day:  the  power 
of  Faith,  the  Faith  which  means  recognition  of  the 
Universal  Mind.  Some  one  has  said  that  'to  realize 
the  manifestation  of  the  Divine  which  Jesus  stands 
for,  and  to  love  it,  is  the  indispensable  condition  for 
attaining  that  access  to  the  Father  which  means  the  full 
development  in  ourselves  of  all  the  powers  of  the  Spirit."1 
"You  accept  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  ?" 
"  I  believe  in  a  God-soul,  who  has  created  and  inter- 
penetrates the  universe.  I  believe  in  the  God-made 
flesh.  And  I  believe  in  the  God-Mind,  the  Holy 
Ghost.  I  believe  in  rewards  and  punishments  which 
the  God  within  inflicts  in  this  life  and  in  other  lives. 
I  believe  in  the  resurrection  of  the  dead;  and  in  the 
Communion  of  Saints." 

"When  did  you  begin  to  think  independently?" 
"When  I  was  seventeen.  If  a  man  is  because  he 
thinks,  then  it  follows  that  his  spiritual  advance  depends 
upon  what  he  thinks.  Our  thoughts  are  a  barometer 
by  which  we  can  gauge  day  by  day  the  growth  of  the 
soul  which  is  nourished  or  impoverished  by  them. 
If  you  can  know  a  man  by  his  friends,  so  also  you  can 
know  yourself  by  your  thoughts,  which  are  indeed 
angels  or  devils  to  the  host  who  entertains  them. 
Truly  has  the  Psalmist  said  that  some  perish  through 
their  own  imaginations." 


296  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"A  man's  thoughts,  you  say,  are  not  his  own  ?" 

"He  makes  them  his  own  by  adoption.  In  this  he 
exhibits  his  free  will.  With  the  thoughts  that  are  not 
his  he  can  create  new  thoughts." 

David  moved  restlessly. 

"  My  thoughts  are  trying  to  create  something." 

"Yes?" 

"A  finale  to  'Solomon's  Garden/  My  life  —  so  I 
firmly  believe  —  was  spared  for  just  that." 

To  this  Pignerol  made  no  reply. 

Next  day  he  took  the  early  train  to  London,  hoping 
to  be  able  to  return  to  Sherborne  the  same  day,  but 
about  three  in  the  afternoon  David  received  a  tele- 
gram:— 

"Have  searched  your  room  thoroughly.  No  score 
to  be  found" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MOLLIE    PICKS    UP   STITCHES 

UPON  receipt  of  the  telegram,  David  insisted 
that  Mollie  should  join  her  grandfather.  If 
necessary, expert  assistance  must  be  called  in. 
Let  every  nook  and  cranny  be  searched.  His  instruc- 
tions were  carried  out,  but  within  twenty-four  hours 
Mollie  and  Pignerol  returned  empty-handed.  "Solo- 
mon's Garden"  had  vanished. 

When  David  was  told,  he  said  grimly: 

"I  destroyed  it." 

"What?" 

"  By  accident.  I  guessed  what  had  happened  when 
I  got  the  telegram.  Years  ago,  just  after  the  production 
of  the  '  Belle  and  the  Tiger,'  I  had  a  burning  of  old 
scores  and  papers.  A  cupboard  was  full  of  what  I 
thought  rubbish.  I  had  forgotten  the  oratorio.  Now 
I  can  remember  distinctly  putting  it  there.  I  remem- 
ber as  distinctly  how  tired  I  got  of  glancing  through 
that  huge  mass  of  manuscript.  And  at  last  I  bundled 
what  was  left  into  the  fire." 

Pignerol  exclaimed: 

"What  an  awful  thing!" 

"I  must  rewrite  it  from  memory,"  said  David. 

He  began  work  the  next  morning,  sitting  at  the 
piano,  and  playing  over  such  parts  as  he  could  remem- 

297 


298  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

her.  Then  he  would  dictate  the  notes  to  Mollie:  a 
laborious  task.  Pignerol  conceived  the  happy  thought 
of  using  a  phonograph,  which  lightened  the  labour; 
but  long  before  a  week  had  passed  it  became  plain  that 
David  had  forgotten  much  of  the  old  and  that  no  new 
music  would  come  to  him. 

We  have  here  an  instance  of  the  power  of  the  brain 
to  impose  conditions  upon  the  spirit.  David,  before 
the  accident,  had  decided  —  possibly  with  a  resolution 
greater  than  he  had  understood  —  not  to  write  any 
more  sugary  music.  He  had  damned,  it  will  be 
remembered,  the  "tinkle-tinkle  bell."  Apart  from  the 
fact  that  light  and  colour  transposed  themselves  into 
sound  for  him,  and  that  darkness  now  overshadowed 
these,  it  is  probable  that  a  desire  on  his  part  to  suppress 
certain  fleshly  manifestations  of  his  genius  had  indeed 
raised  a  veil  even  more  impenetrable  than  phys- 
ical blindness  between  his  higher  and  lower  natures. 
Pignerol  maintained  that  the  will  could  interpose  an 
insuperable  barrier  between  the  spirit  and  thought- 
forms  which  that  spirit  desired  to  exclude.  To  console 
David,  he  maintained  stoutly  that  the  higher  inspiration, 
so  long  denied  expression,  would  return,  although  no 
man  could  predict  when  or  how.  David  remained 
faithful  to  his  determination  to  write  no  more  musical 
comedies.  He  told  Mollie  and  Pignerol  that  he  wished 
to  give  to  the  world  his  best  or  nothing;  and  every 
day  the  conviction  deepened  that  the  world,  begin- 
ning already  to  clamour  for  something,  might  receive 
nothing. 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES         299 

About  a  fortnight  later,  when  David  happened 
to  be  alone,  a  parlour-maid  came  in  to  say  that  a 
gentleman  wished  to  see  Mr.  Archdale  most  particu- 
larly. 

"Most  particularly?"  repeated  David.  "What 
name  ?" 

"  The  gentleman  said  you  didn't  know  him  personally. 
His  name  is  Mr.  Henry  Middleton." 

"Mr.  Henry  Middbton  ?"  murmured  David  vaguely. 

Then  he  remembered.  Middleton,  of  course,  was  the 
great  man  who  at  Stormont  Lodge  had  flattered  Mollie 
by  his  attentions.  Why  had  he  come  to  Sherborne  ? 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Middleton." 

As  the  maid  left  the  room  David  reflected  that 
Middleton  had  come  upon  a  fool's  errand.  For  months 
Mollie  had  not  mentioned  him.  He  was  nothing  to 
her,  could  be  nothing.  And  yet,  if  passing  through 
Sherborne  he  had  called  upon  Mollie  as  a  mere  act 
of  courtesy,  why  had  he  wished  to  see  her  father 
"most  particularly?"  When  Middleton  entered, 
David  held  out  his  hand  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Mrs.  Stormont  has  spoken  to  me  of  you." 

Henry  Middleton  replied  heavily: 

"Has  she?" 

David  tried  to  visualize  him.  He  remembered 
vaguely  a  large  ungainly  figure  not  without  dignity 
and  power,  and  a  long,  narrow,  impassive  face  which 
lent  itself  to  caricature.  Once,  he  had  heard  Middleton 
speak  at  a  big  public  meeting.  Beginning  badly, 
with  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  against  him,  the 


300  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

man  had  ended  with  a  triumph,  the  greater  because 
unexpected  and  due  to  the  speaker's  sincerity  of  pur- 
pose and  his  mastery  of  a  difficult  subject. 

"  She  said  you  always  had  your  own  way/' 

"Mrs.  Stormont  made  a  similar  remark  about  you, 
Mr.  Archdale." 

"  My  way  has  ended  in  a  blind  alley." 

"You  have  my  sincerest  sympathy.  It  is  very  good 
of  you  to  see  me.  I  had  to  come." 

David  waited.     Middleton  would  beat  no  bushes. 

"I  am  tremendously  interested  in  your  daughter. 
With  your  permission  I  should  like  to  remain  in  Sher- 
borne  in  the  hope  of  persuading  her  to  become  my  wife." 

This  bald  but  business-like  statement  provoked 
another  smile.  David  said  tentatively: 

"With  my  permission?     Is  that  necessary  ?" 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  think  so." 
'Thank  you.     You  have  my  permission,  to  win  her 
if  you  can.     But  I  should  say  the  same  to  any  decent, 
honourable  man." 

An  awkward  silence  followed,  the  sense  on  the  part 
of  both  men  that  they  had  nothing  in  common  except 
an  interest  too  great  to  bear  discussion.  David  was 
the  first  to  speak: 

"You  have  had  a  busy  session  ?" 

"Very." 

"Is  it  true  that  you  may  go  to  Canada?" 

"It  is  on  the  cards.  Strictly  between  ourselves,  I 
have  been  approached.  The  fact  that  I  am  a  bachelor 
is  against  me." 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES         301 

"I  understand." 

Pignerol's  entrance  with  Mollie  was  a  welcome 
interruption.  David  listened  to  Mollie's  voice,  trying 
to  interpret  every  tone  and  semitone.  Suddenly 
he  realized  that  he  hated  Middleton,  that  he  would 
fight  for  his  own,  and  that  he  was  justified  in  so  doing. 

"He  wants  Canada  more  than  Mollie,"  he  thought. 

Just  then  Pignerol  asked  a  question  which  Middleton 
answered  with  a  precision  and  knowledge  challenging 
silence  and  admiration.  At  this,  devils  tore  David. 
Almost  savagely,  he  began  in  his  turn  to  ask  for  infor- 
mation upon  matters  concerning  which  —  as  Mrs. 
Stormont  had  put  it  —  Henry  Middleton  was  indeed 
brutally  ignorant.  David  begged  his  visitor  to  be  kind 
enough  to  write  down  the  names  of  a  few  new  books; 
he  wanted  to  hear  about  the  latest  comedy,  the  picture 
of  the  hour,  the  Australian  tenor.  David  could  talk 
admirably  upon  such  themes;  Middleton  replied  in 
monosyllables,  assuming  his  stolid,  impenetrable  mask, 
admitting,  almost  clownishly,  that  he  cared  nothing 
for  art  and  was  practically  tone-deaf  and  colour-blind. 
From  time  to  time  Mollie  expressed  mild  surprise  at 
his  indifference. 

"Surely,  Mr.  Middleton,  you  read  something  beside 
blue  books." 

"Not  much  else." 

"How  dull!" 

David  smiled  discreetly. 

"They  called  me  'Gradgrind'  at  Oxford." 

Middleton    took    leave    after    tea.     The    hospitable 


302  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Pignerol  asked  him  to  dine  on  the  following  day.  As 
soon  as  he  had  left,  David  said  irritably: 

"That  man  is  a  bore.  What  he  does  not  know 
about  nearly  everything  worth  knowing  would  fill  an 
encyclopaedia." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Pignerol,  quietly.  Then,  in  the 
slightly  derisive  tone  which  had  made  David  wriggle 
when  he  was  a  boy,  he  added:  "Henry  Middleton  is, 
in  my  opinion,  the  greatest  force  for  good  in  English 
politics  to-day,  and  what  he  knows  about  subjects 
vital  to  the  right  government  of  his  country  would  fill 
another  encyclopaedia." 

Mollie  looked  up,  conscious  of  something  she  was 
unable  to  analyze,  a  dissonance  which  jarred  upon  a 
sensitive  ear.  She  perceived  that  her  father  was 
flushed  and  ill  at  ease;  and  immediately  the  yearning 
to  console  drove  out  other  perceptions  not  so  well 
defined.  She  kissed  him,  whispering: 

"How  well  you  talked!  But  Mr.  Middleton  listened 
nearly  as  well,  didn't  he  ?" 

Pignerol  smiled.  His  voice  warmed  into  a  fuller 
tone  as  he  exclaimed : 

"Bravo,  Molliekins!  I  must  have  a  kiss  on  both 
cheeks  for  that.  How  wise  you  are!" 

As  instantly  David  responded. 

"I  beg  Middleton's  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  am  an 
irritable,  superficial  ass,  and  a  boor  to  monopolize  the 
talk  as  I  did." 

"  But  Mr.  Middleton  was  charmed.  He  liked  to  hear 
you,  father.  I  know  his  face  quite  well  by  now.  He 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES         303 

only  looks  dull.  And  he  is  so  modest  and  unassum- 
ing. How  are  you  feeling?'* 

"  My  head  buzzes  with  those  confounded  airs  in  the 
Jollity  pieces.  I  thought  I  had  got  hold  of  a  motif, 
when  a  barrel  organ  began  to  grind  out  'In  Cowslip 
Time.'  I  hear  it  now." 

"Let  us  go  for  a  walk,"  said  Mollie. 

Dun  days  followed.  Phrases  out  of  "Solomon's 
Garden"  floated  into  David's  mind  in  obedience  to  his 
intense  demand  for  them,  were  laboriously  picked  out 
on  the  piano,  and  then  recorded  by  the  phonograph. 
David  said  despairingly: 

"I  was  at  my  best  when  I  wrote  it;  now  I  am  at  my 
worst.  I  conceived  of  my  garden  as  the  Garden  of 
the  Soul,  the  Garden  of  Wisdom.  My  highest  thoughts 
seemed  to  transpose  themselves  into  sound.  There 
were  moments  when  I  knew  that  I  was  flooded  with 
inspiration,  and  now  —  nothing  —  nothing!" 

"It  will  come  back." 

From  this  position  the  faithful  Mollie  refused  to 
move.  Pignerol  added,  emphatically:  "Yes,  it  will 
come  back,  because  it  is  there,  complete,  not  a  bar 
missing.  Nothing  is  lost." 

"It  is  lost  till  it  is  found." 

David's  weakness,  intensified  by  frequent  bouts  of 
pain,  aroused  increasing  strength  in  Mollie.  Even 
Pignerol  marvelled,  as  he  watched  the  miracle  of 
transformation,  the  unfolding  of  a  Soul.  He  began  to 
talk  to  Mollie  as  he  had  talked  to  Mary,  nourishing  her 


3o4  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

mind  with  the  thoughts  which  had  lifted  him  far  above 
the  vanities  and  vexations  of  a  material  world. 

"You  are  doing  fine  work,  my  Mollie,"  he  would  say, 
with  a  quaint  chuckle.  "You  are  picking  up  your 
mother's  stitches/' 

"If  I  could  make  Father  happier 

"But  you  will,  you  will.  Never  doubt  that  for  an 
instant.  Doubt  is  the  devil,  Beelzebub  himself,  my 
pretty.  The  serpent  Doubt,  or  Negation,  brought 
about  the  fall  of  man.  I  must  read  to  you  a  chapter 
in  my  book  which  deals  with  the  Book  of  Genesis. 
The  Divine  Force  created  Adam,  the  red  clay,  and 
gave  to  him  Eve,  the  soul.  That  soul  was  in  its  essence 
universal  and  good,  but  if  we  conceive  it  as  capable 
of  directing  and  transmitting  energy,  we  must  equally 
conceive  it  as  capable  of  misdirection.  When  the 
complete  Man,  body  and  soul,  became  an  agent  of  the 
Most  High,  and  an  agent  gifted  with  free  will,  his  mis- 
direction of  the  force  imparted  to  him  caused  the  Fall, 
and  the  creation  of  evil.  Hence  the  necessity  of  an 
Atonement.  But  these  are  high  matters,  not  to  be 
considered  lightly.  For  the  moment  it  is  enough  for 
you  to  believe  that  doubt  is  damnation,  and  faith  the 
one  thing  necessary  to  salvation.  Believe  that  it  will 
be  well  with  your  father.  I  have  never  lost  faith  in 
him.  He  is  not  like  ordinary  men.  He  is  a  genius." 

"  But  what  is  a  genius  ?" 

"An  advanced  human  being  in  whom  the  mind  and 
soul  work  harmoniously.  The  nearer  they  approach 
to  a  true  understanding  of  their  separate  functions, 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES        305 

the  greater  the  manifestation  of  genius.  Your  father, 
as  a  boy,  astounded  us  again  and  again  by  his  per- 
ception of  truths  which  we  —  the  Vicar,  Fermor  and 
I  —  had  groped  for  during  years.  He  —  a  child  — 
seemed  to  divine  what  was  best  for  his  own  develop- 
ment. It  was  something  in  him  that  prevented  his 
being  sent  to  a  public  school.  He  was  able  to  repel 
influences  likely  to  injure  him;  he  seemed  to  grasp  intui- 
tively the  things  that  were  right  for  his  development 
as  a  musician.  He  was  adopted  by  the  right  man; 
he  married  the  right  woman.  The  result  —  so  Fermor 
always  maintained — was  'Solomon's  Garden.'  I  am 
no  musician,  so  I  did  not  see  this  at  the  time.  I  know 
now  that  up  to  a  point  mind  and  soul  had  advanced 
hand  in  hand.  But  when  he  misdirected  his  aims 
toward  a  facile  success,  I  can  see  plainly  how  inevitably 
the  mind  drifted  farther  and  farther  from  the  soul. 
But  I  believe,  and  you  must  believe,  that  the  two  will 
come  together  again.  Our  belief  will  help  him.  He 
is  dependent  upon  you  in  a  sense  which  you  cannot 


measure." 


"Do  you  mean  that  I  am  necessary  to  him  ?" 

"Most  emphatically/' 

To  his  surprise,  he  saw  a  faint  shadow  in  her  eyes, 
which  blurred  his  vision  of  her.  She  said,  hesitatingly: 

"I  can  do  so  little." 

"Pah!  What  a  parrot  cry!  Little?  Do  you  dare, 
my  Molliekins,  to  say  what  is  little  or  big  ?  Can  you 
measure  the  influence  of  one  human  being  upon 
another  ?  Ah,  well,  I  am  beginning  to  wish  that 


3o6  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

my  book  was  in  print.  The  influence  that  a  baby, 
a  morsel  of  pink  and  white  flesh,  may  have  upon  the 
wisest  man  is  incalculable.  Your  father  never  discov- 
ered what  he  owed  to  your  mother  till  she  passed  to  the 
other  side.  The  work  she  began,  you  must  finish." 

His  power  of  arousing  enthusiasm  in  others,  his 
flaming  desire  to  help  those  less  strong  than 
himself,  created  an  illumination  in  Mollie,  which 
shone  steadfastly  in  her  eyes,  as  she  answered: 

"I  will  have  faith.     What  I  can  do,  I  will  do." 

That  night,  alone  with  David,  Pignerol  dropped  the 
same  balm  upon  an  abraded  and  burning  consciousness 
of  failure  and  humiliation. 

"Why  did  I  not  die?"  David  asked.  "My  music 
has  gone.  There  is  nothing  left  for  a  blind  cripple 
to  do,  except  to  make  the  lives  of  those  about  him 
miserable." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  ? " 

"I  am  a  nuisance  to  myself  and  everybody  in  this 
house.  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  work;  I  am  turning 
Mollie  into  a  drudge." 

"Not  so.  You  are  turning  Mollie  from  a  rather 
frivolous,  vain,  selfish  little  girl  into  something  like 
an  angel." 

"That's  the  good  in  her,  bless  her!" 

"Ah,  David,  you  are  the  instrument  which  has 
wrought  the  change.  Had  you  died,  Mollie,  I  fear, 
might  have  never  learned  to  live.  You  spoiled  her; 
you  never  saw  the  weeds  in  her  soul." 

"What  do  you  say?" 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES        307 

Pignerol  repeated  the  phrase,  slightly  astonished 
at  the  excitement  in  David's  face. 

"The  weeds  in  her  soul  ?  Why  does  that  make  me 
thrill?  Why  do  I  feel  so  certain  that  it  is  true?" 
Weeds?  And  yet"  -he  passed  h;s  hand  over  a 
forehead  wrinkled  by  the  effort  to  grasp  some  fugitive 
thought  —  "  I  did  see  weeds.  Where  ?  When  ?  My 
God!  If—  if  I  knew! " 

Pignerol  touched  him,  gently  but  firmly. 

"  Knowledge  comes  to  the  serene  and  patient.  Be 
calm,  David!  Don't  speak!  I  will  try  to  the  best  of 
my  ability  to  help  you.  Lie  back  in  your  chair.  So. 
Let  me  hold  your  hands.  Now,  together,  let  us  make 
a  tiny  experiment.  Put  from  you  these  turbulent 
thoughts  and  regrets.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  that  you 
are  about  to  fall  into  a  pleasant  sleep.  Believe  that  the 
light  will  come." 

As  he  spoke  his  kind  voice  had  the  tender  inflection 
of  a  woman's,  his  touch  soothed  the  quivering 
nerves  of  his  patient;  the  virtue  of  a  powerful  will 
concentrated  upon  healing  seemed  to  suffuse  the  tissues. 
Presently,  David  experienced  a  delicious  languor, 
and  then  consciousness  melted  into  a  profound 
sleep.  When  he  woke,  Pignerol  was  still  holding 
his  hands. 

"I  dreamed,"  said  David. 

"Can  you  remember  your  dream  ?" 

"It  has  gone.     Did  you  hypnotize  me  ?" 

"No.     I  tried  to  calm  you." 

"  You  succeeded.     How  long  have  I  been  asleep  ?" 


3o8  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  Not  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Before  you  fell  asleep, 
you  were  trying  to  remember  something  connected  with 
weeds  and  Mollie." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Don't  move!  Remain  as  calm  as  possible.  Now, 
let  remembrance  work  naturally,  if  it  will." 

After  a  long  pause,  David  said  uncertainly:  "I 
looked  into  her  mind  upon  the  night  when  I  stood  in 
her  room.  And  what  I  saw  distressed  me  inconceivably. 
But  now  the  vision  is  blurred." 

"Something  has  been  accomplished,"  said  Pignerol, 
releasing  David's  hands.  "Very  little,  but  a  step  in  the 
true  direction.  For  a  moment  soul  and  mind  were 
working  in  unison.  That  moment  will  come  again  and 
again,  but  you  must  have  patience  and  faith.  Good- 
night, David." 

"Goodnight." 

Each  day,  in  the  afternoon,  Henry  Middleton  came 
to  Pignerol's  house.  Often  he  would  stay  to  dinner, 
contributing  little  toward  the  entertainment  beyond  an 
attentive  pair  of  ears.  It  was  noticed  that  he  seemed 
to  have  plenty  to  say  when  he  was  alone  with  Mollie. 
But  Mollie,  upon  examination,  confessed  that  he  talked 
of  his  work.  He  spent  his  mornings  either  reading 
or  walking  about  Sherborne.  It  leaked  out  that  he 
had  offered  funds  for  a  much-needed  purpose  —  the 
better  equipment  of  the  hospital. 

Meantime,  David  made  no  more  attempts  to  exhibit 
his  daughter's  lover  in  a  ridiculous  light.  He  was 


MOLLIE   PICKS  UP  STITCHES         309 

ashamed  of  what  he  had  done.  Nevertheless,  he 
disliked  Middleton,  and  this  dislike,  although  passive, 
made  itself  felt  in  the  household.  To  Pignerol,  David 
admitted  his  conviction  that  Mollie  would  accept  this 
stolid,  plodding  tortoise  of  a  man. 

"  Because  he  has  so  much  to  offer  ?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.  I--I  don't  know.  But  he 
has  impressed  her;  he  interests  her;  when  he  doesn't 
come  she  misses  him." 

"If  she  marries  him,  David,  you  must  make  this 
your  home." 

"You  are  the  most  unselfish  of  men,  but  I  couldn't. 
Already  I  reproach  myself  because  you  give  me  your 
afternoons  and  evenings." 

"Rubbish!" 

At  this  crisis,  the  burly  Lorimer  appeared.  He  had 
just  returned  from  a  holiday  abroad,  full  of  plans  for 
the  future  and  with  an  appetite  for  work  sharpened  by 
six  weeks  abstinence.  With  him  came  the  atmosphere 
of  the  town,  its  pungent  flavour,  its  energy  and  move- 
ment. To  David's  surprise,  Lorimer  expressed  cordial 
approval  of  the  production  of  the  oratorio. 

"Why  this  complete  somersault  ?"  David  asked. 

"My  dear  fellow,  the  moment  has  come.  I  shall 
take  delight  in  relieving  you  of  all  responsibility.  I 
promise  the  Albert  Hall,  and  a  galaxy  of  stars.  You 
are,  of  course,  the  man  of  the  hour.  Your  astounding 
recovery 

"Recovery!" 


3io  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  I  mean  the  fact  that  you  are  alive.  It  will  be  said 
that  you  were  spared  to  produce  a  masterpiece." 

"I  was.  Well  paragraphed  that  will  make  an 
impression." 

Quite  unconscious  of  a  derisive  note,  the  worthy 
Lorimer  continued:  "Just  so.  An  enormous  interest 
could  be  worked  up.  Again  I  say,  leave  that  to  me. 
A  musical  comedy  from  you,  at  the  moment  when, 
when 

"When   I   am   half-dead." 

"Come,  come,  you  understand.  Give  me  credit 
for  a  certain  delicacy,  but  the  fact  remains  that  a  serious 
work  from  a  man  almost  raised  from  the  dead  would  be 
taken  seriously.  It  might  be  expedient  to  let  the 
public  believe  that  the  oratorio  is  your  latest  as  well  as 
your  greatest  work  — eh  ?" 

"My  latest?  Urn!  It  is  likely  to  be  very  late 
indeed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     This  is  the  psychological 


moment." 


"Unfortunately  the  score  has  been  destroyed." 

"Impossible." 

"  I  did  it  —  by  mistake." 

"But  surely  it's  in  your  head  ?" 

"Bits  of  it.  I  have  the  libretto,  and  that  I  can 
improve,  but  the  music  won't  come  back  —  except 
by  fits  and  starts." 

"This  is  upsetting." 

"Very." 

Accordingly,    Lorimer    returned    to    Bond    Street 


MOLLIE  PICKS  UP  STITCHES         311 

with  an  unsigned  agreement  in  his  pocket.  But  he 
told  himself  that  he  had  inspired  David  with  some 
of  his  former  ambition.  And  this  was  true.  The  old 
leaven  began  to  work  and  ferment.  Lorimer's  vehe- 
ment assurance  that  the  oratorio  would  create  a  prodi- 
gious sensation  whetted  to  fresh  keenness  David's 
appetite  for  recognition. 

Morning  after  morning  he  would  seat  himself  at  the 
piano,  and  play  over  certain  themes.  Opposite 
Pignerol's  piano  stood  the  small  American  organ  used 
by  Fermor.  David  would  limp  from  one  instrument 
to  the  other,  treating  his  theme  in  half  a  dozen  different 
ways,  but  quite  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  which  was 
the  best.  When  at  length  he  arrived  at  a  decision, 
the  music  was  played  upon  the  piano,  and  then  recorded 
by  the  phonograph.  After  that  began  the  hardest 
labour.  Note  by  note,  David  would  dictate  to  Mollie, 
often  pausing,  always  dissatisfied  with  the  result,  but 
persevering  with  a  resolution  which  Pignerol  assured 
him  must  bear  fruit.  Lorimer  had  undertaken  the 
orchestration  of  the  score. 

Presently  it  became  evident  to  both  Mollie  and 
Pignerol  that  David  would  break  down  under  this 
immense  strain.  Pignerol  protested,  but  David  laughed. 

"I'm  started,"  he  replied  grimly.  "And  I  shall  go 
till  I  drop." 

To  Mollie's  question,  "Can  we  do  nothing?" 
Pignerol  answered,  "We  can  watch  and  pray." 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOLLIE  SEES   TWO   ROADS 

IN  EARLY  September,  Henry  Middleton  left  Sher- 
borne,  summoned  to  Scotland  by  the  Prime 
Minister.  David  heard  of  his  departure  through 
Pignerol.  His  passive  attitude  toward  his  daughter's 
lover  had  made  confidence  on  her  part  difficult. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  David  asked. 

"A  big  colonial  appointment/' 

"And  he  has  said  nothing  to  Mollie  ?" 

"Nothing  yet.     But  he's  coming  back." 

"Persistent  beggar!"  muttered  David.  Then  in  a 
voice  which  he  tried  to  make  soft,  he  said :  "  Of  course 
she  will  take  him." 

"We  none  of  us  know." 

David  burst  out  vehemently:  "Well,  make  this 
plain  to  the  child,  for  I  can't  trust  myself  to  speak 
about  it  -  She  must  not  refuse  him  on  my  account." 
He  became  more  agitated.  "Do  you  understand? 
Dear  as  she  is  to  me,  dearer  every  day,  and  closer,  I 
won't  have  her  light  put  out  because  I'm  in  darkness. 
To  keep  that  radiant  creature  tied  to  a  cripple  — 
God!  What  a  thought!" 

"  Has  she  given  no  hint  to  you  ?" 

"No;  that  is  my  fault.  I  showed  my  dislike  to 
Middleton  too  plainly.  Oh,  he's  one  of  the  best,  no 

3" 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO  ROADS  313 

doubt,  hut  I  couldn't  have  cottoned  to  an  archangel 
that  wanted  my  Mollie." 

Meantime,  the  work  on  the  oratorio  continued  slowly 
and  laboriously.  Upon  the  new  score  was  lavished 
all  of  David's  science  and  art,  but  the  higher  inspiration 
was  lacking.  And,  by  night  and  day,  he  complained 
of  the  gadfly  tormentings  of  musical-comedy  tunes. 

"I  can't  get  rid  of  them,"  he  said  furiously.  "They 
keep  the  themes  I  want  at  bay." 

Two  days  later  he  broke  down,  and  was  forced  to 
take  to  his  bed,  racked  by  neuralgic  pains  which  assailed 
the  back  of  his  eyes  and  his  spine.  The  doctor  in 
attendance  prescribed  absolute  rest. 

In  a  gust  of  futile  rage,  David  commanded  Mollie  to 
tear  up  what  had  been  so  laboriously  transcribed. 
But  Mollie  refused.  Her  patience  and  good  temper 
never  failed;  and  the  simple  Gallic  gaiety  which  makes 
much  out  of  little  brightened  even  the  darkest  hours. 
She  devised  absurd  games,  and  each  day  published  a 
long  chronicle  of  the  doings  in  the  family.  Pignerol 
called  her,  ma  bonne  petite  gazette.  To  him  and  to 
everybody  else  it  became  evident  that  she  was  indeed 
the  light  of  her  father's  eyes.  Her  presence,  her  touch, 
her  laugh  exercised  an  extraordinary  influence  over 
David,  and,  perhaps,  the  knowledge  that  she  alone 
could  comfort  and  distract  him  spurred  her  too  willing 
spirit  to  even  more  devoted  endeavour. 

And,  adoring  her  as  he  did,  David  said  to  himself 
each  day:  "I  shall  lose  her  —  and  what  then  ?" 

He  had  been  confined  to  his  bed  about  a  week  when 


3i4  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

the  news  came  of  Middleton's  appointment,  an  appoint- 
ment which  —  as  The  Thunderer  pointed  out  —  was 
the  recognition  on  the  part  of  the  Government  of  the 
ablest  administrator  of  his  day.  David  heard  from 
Mollie  of  this  appointment,  but  he  could  only  guess 
from  the  tone  of  her  voice,  which  was  not  quite  steady, 
that  she  was  excited  and  delighted.  He  asked  no 
questions  and  contented  himself  with  sending  a  court- 
eous message  of  congratulation  to  be  delivered  to 
Middleton  upon  his  arrival.  Mollie  added  that  she 
was  expecting  him  soon.  She  spoke  quite  calmly. 
David  was  puzzled,  divining  that  she  wished  to  spare 
his  feelings.  And,  immediately,  she  had  changed  the 
channel  of  talk  from  Middleton  to  himself  with  an 
abruptness  which  aroused  suspicion.  As  she  was 
adjusting  a  pillow,  he  caught  her  head  between  his 
hands,,  and  kissed  a  cheek  which  he  discovered  to  be 
wet,  although  she  was  laughing  at  the  time.  With 
intensity,  David  whispered: 

"You  darling  little  woman,  how  happy  you  are 
going  to  make  some  lucky  fellow." 

Mollie,  hoping  he  had  not  noticed  the  tell-tale  moist- 
ure and  reflecting  that  in  any  case  he  would  believe 
that  pity  for  his  sufferings  had  made  her  weep,  re- 
sponded lightly: 

"You  are  the  man  I  want  to  make  happy." 

Next  day,  she  failed  to  find  the  morning  paper, 
which  she  read  aloud  to  David  between  the  hours  of 
ten  and  eleven.  Usually,  it  lay  upon  the  hall  table; 
but  she  saw  that  it  had  been  taken  away,  and  directly 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO   ROADS  315 

afterward  Pignerol  appeared  with  the  paper  in  his 
hand  and  a  shadow  upon  his  pleasant  rosy  face. 

"Come  here,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  followed  him  into  his  study. 

"A  friend  of  your  father's  has  committed  suicide." 

"Who,  who?" 

"Harold  Newsom.     Read." 

The  body  had  been  discovered  at  the  bottom  of  a 
deep  pool  in  a  Scotch  river.  Upon  Newsom's  desk 
was  a  sheet  of  paper  upon  which  the  unhappy  man 
had  set  down  his  reasons  for  committing  suicide. 
Disappointment,  it  seemed,  had  consumed  a  body 
never  too  robust.  Confronted  by  the  spectre  of  an 
incurable  malady,  he  claimed  the  right  to  end  a  life 
no  longer  worth  the  living.  In  a  short  editorial,  it 
was  mentioned  that  his  father,  the  famous  iconoclast, 
had  maintained  this  right  emphatically,  and  in  par- 
ticular where  it  could  be  shown  that  the  dragging  out 
of  existence  imperilled  the  happiness  of  others.  A 
dictum  of  the  great  man  was  quoted:  "Scrap  the  worn- 
out  machine!" 

Mollie  read  the  editorial,  and  glanced  at  her  grand- 
father, who  said :  "  We  must  keep  this  from  your  father. 
It  would  distress  him  greatly." 

"Yes,"  said  Mollie. 

"It  is  possible,"  continued  Pignerol,  "that  this 
appointment  of  Middleton's  had  something  to  do  with 
the  tragedy." 

"O!" 

"Newsom  and  Middleton  were  at  Balliol  together. 


3i6  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Newsom,  so  I  have  always  understood,  was  regarded 
as  the  more  brilliant  man." 

"If  there  was  any  jealousy  behind  the  act  Mr. 
Middleton  will  be  very  unhappy.  I  had  a  letter  from 
him  this  morning." 

"A  letter?" 

"  A  few  lines.     He  is  coming  here  this  afternoon." 

Suddenly  Pignerol  remembered  that  he  had  not 
spoken  to  Mollie.  Hesitatingly,  he  began:  "I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,  my  Molliekins.  Perhaps  I 
shall  say  it  better,  if  you  perch  yourself  on  my  lap,  as 
your  mother  used  to  do  when  she  was  your  age." 

She  blushed,  guessing  what  was  coming,  and  averting 
her  face.  Pignerol's  voice  was  very  sympathetic  as 
he  whispered:  "This  appointment  of  Middleton's  is 
a  very  serious  affair  —  hem?" 

"Very  —  for  him  and  others." 

"  It  is  of  the  others  I  would  speak.  We  have  seen 
how  it  is  with  him.  It  jumps  to  the  eye  that  he  wants 
you." 

"  He  has  not  said  so,"  murmured  Mollie. 

"Because  of  that  I  have  invited  you  to  sit  on  my 
knee.  He  will  speak  as  soon  as  he  arrives.  And 
then,  what  will  you  reply,  my  child  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mollie  nervously;  with  vehe- 
mence, she  continued,  "  I  can't  leave  father." 

"Mollie,  I  am  speaking  for  your  father.  Perhaps 
afterward  I  will  say  a  word  for  myself.  For  the 
moment  your  father  is  speaking,  not  I.  The  thought 
of  any  sacrifice  on  your  part  is  terrible  to  him.  He 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO  ROADS          317 

writhes,  I  tell  you,  under  the  possibility  of  it.  And  he 
charged  me  to  tell  you  this  before  Middleton  arrives." 

"He  does  not  like  Mr.  Middleton." 

"Because  he  doesn't  understand  him." 

"Thank  you  for  that." 

"The  girl  who  marries  Henry  Middleton  will  be  very 
lucky.  If  he  were  poor  and  obscure  I  should  say  the 
same  thing." 

Mollie  kissed  him,  and  Pingerol  knew  then  that 
Middleton  had  not  been  wasting  his  time  in  Sherborne. 
In  a  different  tone  the  Professor  continued : 

"Now  I  will  add  my  word." 

He  paused,  wondering  how  it  would  be  received. 
Was  the  soil  ready  for  the  seed  ?  Then  he  said 
softly: 

"The  thought  of  sacrifice  is  not  terrible  to  me." 

"Ah!" 

"After  the  fall,  sacrifice  became  necessary.  Nobody 
believes  to-day  in  burnt  offerings  of  sheep  and  goats, 
but  they  represented  in  patriarchal  times  a  vital  oppor- 
tunity for  self-denial.  Misdirected  energy,  my  Mollie, 
can  only  be  redirected  aright  through  sacrifice.  When 
you  understand  that,  you  will  have  the  key  to  the 
Bible,  and  to  the  mysteries  which  it  sets  forth  in 
allegory  and  parable." 

"When  I  was  on  my  way  to  Blois  I  prayed  that 
Father  might  be  alive,  and  I  made  a  sort  of  covenant." 

"A  covenant?" 

"That  if  he  was  spared,  I  would  do  anything  — 
anything  that  might  be  required." 


3i 8  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"You  had  no  idea  of  what  might  be  required  ?" 

"No." 

"And  now,  to-day,  you  see  two  roads,  one,  perhaps, 
a  broad,  easy  way,  and  the  other  not  so  easy,  not  so 
broad?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"Child,  which  are  you  going  to  take  ?" 

He  almost  believed  that  Mary  was  speaking,  when 
she  answered  firmly,  "I  am  going  to  stay  with 
Father." 

"So  be  it,"  said  Pignerol.  After  a  pause  he  added, 
"  But  you  must  not  look  back." 

"  I  shall  try  not  to." 

"If  you  try  hard  enough  you  will  succeed.  To  look 
back  with  regret  and  sadness,  to  let  your  mind  dwell 
upon  the  broad,  easy  way,  will  poison  your  life  and  his. 
But  this  is  certain.  To  those  who  choose  the  narrow 
path  and  walk  in  it  serene  and  hopeful,  it  broadens  day 
by  day,  till  it  becomes  in  truth  the  Perfect  Way.  And 
the  other,  unless  all  human  experience  is  at  fault, 
changes  inversely,  ever  narrowing  and  darkening  till 
at  length  we  cease  to  walk  upright  in  it,  but  slide  head- 
long into  bottomless  abysses." 

Suddenly  she  clutched  him  as  if  afraid. 

"You  will  help  me  if  I  stumble." 

"Gladly.  All  the  same,  I  would  have  you  believe 
that  if  the  energy,  the  force,  lies  without,  to  be  had  for 
the  asking,  still  the  perception  of  spiritual  truth  is 
within  and  comes  from  the  Divine  within,  the  God  in 
whose  image  we  were  made.  By  the  light  within, 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO  ROADS  319 

Mollie,  you  will  walk  bravely  along  the  path  you  have 
chosen." 

"  Father  must  not  know." 

"Not   yet.     Otherwise    the    sacrifice    would    be    in 


vain/3 


They  rose,  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes.  It  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  the  man  had  lived  nearly 
seventy  years  and  the  girl  less  than  twenty.  Youth  was 
as  conspicuous  in  Pignerol  as  in  his  grandchild:  the 
youth  which  is  immortal,  which  ever  expects  and 
demands  greater  joys,  an  ampler  life,  a  wider  intelli- 
gence, a  more  vital  sympathy. 

While  Pignerol  was  talking  to  Mollie,  David  lay 
upon  his  back  thinking  of  the  girl's  wet  cheek  and 
cursing  the  darkness  that  hid  her  face  from  him.  Was 
she  about  to  leave  him  ? 

Did  she  love  Henry  Middleton  ? 

His  mind  concentrated  upon  this  point  of  inter- 
rogation. If  he  could  look  for  one  instant  into  her  clear 
eyes,  he  would  know.  Because  such  vision  was  denied, 
he  rebelled  passionately.  So  Prometheus  suffered, 
and  Job. 

That  afternoon  the  doctor  spoke  of  an  improvement. 
David  laughed  grimly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  improvement  ?  I  had  a 
very  bad  night." 

"You  have  extraordinary  vitality,  Mr.  Archdale." 

"Tell  me  the  truth.  I  lie  here  knowing  that  half 
the  time  I  am  being  humbugged  by  kind  but  well- 


320  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

meaning  friends.  Am  I  likely  to  make  old  bones 
after  all?" 

"Quite  likely." 

"I  might  attain  threescore  years  and  ten?" 

"With   care— yes." 

"Other  people's  care,  eh  ?" 

As  he  put  the  question,  he  saw  himself  being  led 
down  the  long  years.  The  doctor,  accustomed  to 
work  in  a  town,  where  certain  expressions  and  senti- 
ments were  expected  of  him,  added  with  unction:  "You 
can  thank  God  for  an  excellent  constitution." 

"Can  I  ?"  said  David,  derisively. 

The  worthy  doctor  reddened. 

"I  don't  say  that  to  humbug  you;  your  constitution 
is  of  iron." 

"  And  with  care  -  David  laughed  again.  "  Was 
there  ever  a  patient  of  yours  who  received  more  care  ?" 

The  doctor  took  part  of  the  compliment  to  himself; 
it  may  be  added  that  he  deserved  it. 

"  Mr.  Archdale,  the  care  of  you  is  a  matter  of  world- 
wide importance.  I  realize  my  own  responsibility, 
I  can  assure  you.  That  is  why  I  lay  so  much  stress 
upon  absolute  rest." 

"Rest?"     David  laughed  again. 

"  I  entreat  you  to  cooperate  with  us  and  Nature.  I 
shall  look  in  again  to-morrow." 

To-morrow! 

Yes;  and  the  day  after  —  and  the  day  after  that! 
Out  of  the  gloom  they  came,  these  grisly  to-morrows; 
an  endless  procession  of  days  without  light  or  colour, 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO  ROADS          321 

each  the  black  counterfeit  of  its  predecessor:  dim 
sentinels  lining  the  perspectives  of  Time. 

"Did  you  bring  the  morphia  ?" 

The  neuralgia  during  the  previous  night  had  been 
so  severe  that  an  ordinary  composing  draught  failed 
to  alleviate  it.  Accordingly,  at  David's  request,  the 
doctor  had  consented  to  bring  a  little  morphia  to  be 
injected  hypodermically,  if  the  pain  became  very 
acute. 

"Yes;  but  you  won't  need  it." 

"  Professor  Pignerol  will  administer  it,  if  necessary." 

"Very  well;  I  will  give  it  to  him.  I  repeat  you 
are  much  better.  But  a  chill,  the  slightest  fatigue, 
an  indiscretion  in  diet,  and  you  would  be  worse 
then  ever.  This  is  a  superb  appointment  of  Mr. 
Middleton's?" 

David  smiled,  detecting  a  curious  note.  The  doctor 
misinterpreted  the  smile.  By  this  time  all  Sherborne 
had  guessed  the  reason  of  Middleton's  presence  amongst 
them. 

"That  appointment,"  continued  the  doctor  blandly, 
"may  have  something  to  do  with  your  improvement, 
which  is  really  very  marked.  I  trust  I  am  not  indis- 
creet, Mr.  Archdale.  I  have  girls  of  my  own.  The 
papers  say  that  a  peerage  will  be  conferred.  The 
Colonials  dearly  love  a  lord.  Well,  I  must  be  going. 
By  the  way,  the  death  of  his  friend  is  a  very  shocking 
affair,  eh?" 

"What  friend?"  asked  David,  indifferently. 

"Harold  Newsom,  the  novelist." 


322  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"  Harold  Newsom  ?  I  know  him  quite  well.  Dead  ? 
How  did  he  die  ?  Confound  it!  Pignerol  must  have 
kept  this  from  me.  I'm  not  a  baby.  Pray  tell  me  the 
details." 

The  doctor  did  so,  not  very  willingly,  for  he  per- 
ceived that  he  had  been  indiscreet.  David  listened. 
At  the  end  he  said  slowly:  "Poor  fellow!  He  was  an 
unhappy,  soured  man.  He  made  others  unhappy. 
Perhaps  he  has  done  the  one  thing  possible." 

"Suicide,  unless  the  mind  is  deranged,  is  cowardice/' 

"  Are  we  to  have  no  pity  for  cowards  ?" 

"He  had  a  wife  and  children.  What  a  blow  to 
inflict  upon  them!" 

"They  will  get  over  it,"  said  David  harshly. 

The  doctor  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand.  As  he  rose,  he  said  authoritatively:  "Remem- 
ber! We  must  make  haste  slowly.  Remain  in  bed! 
Don't  worry!  With  care  all  will  be  well." 

He  pressed  David's  hand  and  hastened  away. 
David  laughed.  With  care  all  would  be  well!  With 
care  he  might  attain  unto  threescore  years  and  ten! 

With  care! 

The  word  ground  itself  into  his  soul.  Always  he 
had  been  more  ready  to  give  than  to  receive.  He  had 
entertained,  but  he  had  not  accepted  entertainment  in 
return.  Of  late  years,  for  instance,  other  men's  music 
had  rather  bored  him.  He  was  not  interested  in 
science.  Of  sport  he  knew  little.  Cards  amused 
him  mildly.  Because  of  these  ignorances  and  indif- 
ferences he  seldom  went  to  other  men's  houses,  although 


MOLLIE  SEES  TWO  ROADS  323 

his  own  house  was  called  the  Archdale  Arms.  Now, 
constrained  to  an  enforced  inactivity,  he  was  able  to 
compute,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  accurately,  what 
his  work  had  been  to  him.  Without  work  and  with- 
out Mollie  what  would  be  left  ?  Unutterable  weariness 
of  spirit  and  flesh. 

He  began  to  think  of  Newsom,  and  tried  to  remem- 
ber when  he  had  last  seen  him.  Surely  at  luncheon 
at  the  club.  Newsom  had  held  forth  afterward  upon 
the  eternal  topic  of  self-advertisement  and  log-rolling. 
But,  behind  this  —  as  before  —  was  the  exasperating 
sense  of  some  other  meeting  which  eluded  the  antennae 
of  his  memory  stretching  out,  hither  and  thither,  feeling 
for  a  remembrance  really  vital.  Why  were  Wrest  and 
Thelluson  associated  with  Newsom  ? 

Presently,  Pignerol  looked  in.  Middleton  was  on 
his  way  to  Sherborne,  and  might  be  expected  about 
tea-time. 

"Did  you  speak  to  Mollie?"  asked  David. 

"I  did,"  said  Pignerol. 

"I  hope  you  made  it  plain  beyond  shadow  of  doubt 
that  any  sacrifice  on  her  part  would  drive  me  stark 
mad?" 

"  I  told  her  that  you  were  writhing  at  the  possibility." 

"Thank  you.  Why  did  Mollie  and  you  keep  this 
Newsom  matter  from  me  ?" 

"  It  was  so  shocking.  I  intended  to  break  it  to  you 
quietly.  Shall  I  read  ?  Or  would  you  prefer  to 
talk?" 

"If  you  are  considering  me,  go  back  to  your  book. 


324  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Not  being  able  to  work,  I  can  at  least  console  myself 
with  the  reflection  that  I  am  not  making  others  idle." 
He  spoke  emphatically,  and  Pignerol  saw  that  he 
meant  it.  Accordingly,  he  went  away.  David  lay 
upon  his  back,  thinking  of  Newsom  lying  at  the  bottom 
of  some  quiet,  translucent  pool  —  at  rest! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  THE  GARDEN 

MOLLIE  was  in  the  garden  when  Middleton 
arrived.    He  came  slowly  toward  her  with 
an  expression  upon  his  face  not    easy   to 
interpret.     After  the  first  greeting  he  sat  down  saying, 
in  reply  to  her  congratulations: 

"It  is  a  great  honour  and  a  great  responsibility. 
But  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  this  affair  of  Newsom's. 
He  was  a  friend  of  mine." 

"Yes,  I  knew."  Then  she  added,  "He  was  a 
friend  of  father's." 

"We  were  at  Balliol  together,"  said  Middleton.  "A 
wonderfully  clever  fellow.  He  must  have  heard  of  my 
appointment  a  few  hours  before  his  death.  He  sent 
me  a  telegram  unsigned:  " Moriturus,  te  saluto!" 

"What  a  cruel  thing  to  do!"  exclaimed  Mollie. 

"  Cruel  ?  I  don't  think  he  meant  it  that  way.  Poor 
fellow!  I  am  so  sorry.  I  let  myself  drift  apart  from  him." 

"I  am  sure  that  he  drifted  from  you." 

As  he  looked  at  her  with  his  steady  eyes,  she  blushed, 
and  to  cover  her  confusion  asked  hurriedly:  "Were 
you  jealous  ?  Did  that  come  between  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Middleton  simply.  "He  had  all 
the  qualities  which  I  have  not.  I  must  have  bored 

him  horribly.    And  now " 

325 


326  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"The  papers  spoke  of  his  wife  and  children.  Oh, 
how  could  he  abandon  them  ?" 

"An  unselfish  motive  is  assigned." 

"You  mean  because  he  was  ill,  broken  down  ?" 

"Yes." 

Mollie  hesitated  for  a  moment;  then  she  said  softly: 
"  Do  you  believe  that  women  only  care  for  a  man  when 
he  is  strong  and  successful?"  As  he  made  no  reply, 
she  continued  vehemently:  "Suppose  that  another's 
ill  health  is  the  one  thing,  perhaps  the  only  thing, 
necessary  to  develop  a  woman,  to  make  her  what  she 
was  intended  to  be?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  he  confessed.  "I," 
he  looked  at  her  face,  "I  should  hate  to  be  a  burden 
upon  the  woman  I  loved." 

"One  hears  all  the  strong  men  that  have  ever  lived 
repeating  that."  She  laughed,  with  a  mixture  of 
derision  and  pity,  as  if  she  divined  that  he  with  his 
immense  experience  was  grotesquely  ignorant  upon  this 
particular  subject.  Then,  with  a  tenderness  and 
humility  which  thrilled  her  lover,  she  whispered :  "  We 
do  adore  strength,  but  some  men  make  things  too  easy 
for  the  women  they  love,  and  then  the  women  become 
pigs,  wallowing  in  clover  and  sunshine.  I  know, 
because  I  have  wallowed." 

"You?" 

She  nodded.  Her  hand  lay  close  to  his.  It  was 
delicately  outlined  against  the  stone  bench  upon  which 
it  rested.  Middleton  stared  at  it,  seeing  new  beauty 
in  its  lines.  She  wore  no  rings,  and  Middleton  had 


IN  THE  GARDEN  327 

thought  of  the  gems  which  he  would  like  to  buy  for  that 
hand.  At  this  moment,  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time  as 
the  hand  of  a  ministering  angel.  He  imagined  it 
poised  above  his  own  head,  about  to  touch  a  burning 
forehead.  At  times  he  suffered  with  acute  headache. 
And  he  told  himself  that  Mollie  would  charm  away 
pain  with  a  touch  of  her  fingers.  He  looked  at  her  face, 
now  half  turned  from  his. 

She  had  changed. 

It  was  amazing  that  this  change  had  escaped  his 
notice.  A  certain  girlish  plumpness  had  vanished. 
She  appeared  a  woman.  The  flesh  had  undergone 
some  refining  process.  It  was  impossible,  for  instance, 
to  conceive  of  this  fair  creature  as  —  wallowing! 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  said.  "What  I  can  believe, 
and  it  has  only  come  to  me  this  instant,  is  that  a  man 
might  well  accept  ill-health  or  any  other  misfortune 
if  such  a  woman  as  you  were  at  his  side  to  comfort  him." 

As  she  said  nothing,  he  took  her  hand,  and  con- 
tinued quickly:  "I  have  come  here,  because  I  want 
something  far,  far  bigger  than  any  appointment  in  the 
Empire.  And  the  bigness  of  it  makes  me  realize  my 
own  smallness.  Mollie,  dear  Mollie,  you  know  what 
I  want,  don't  you  ?" 

With  her  head  still  averted,  she  answered,  "Yes." 

As  she  spoke  she  remembered  that  upon  this  bench 
her  father  had  asked  her  mother  to  become  his  wife. 
She  knew  the  story  of  that  long  and  simple  courtship, 
and  she  had  told  herself  again  and  again  that  she  in 
her  turn  would  like  to  be  wooed  in  a  garden,  in  some 


328  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

quiet,  secluded  spot  fragrant  with  associations  which 
still  distilled  an  enchanting  essence. 

"  Mollie,  are  you  going  to  give  me  what  I  want  ?" 

His  voice  trembled,  as  his  grasp  upon  her  hands 
tightened.  She  thrilled  and  shivered. 

"Have  I  been  too  abrupt?"  he  whispered.  "I'm 
a  duffer  at  love-making.  You  are  the  first,  and  when 
I  look  at  you  I  feel  such  a  clown.  I  can  wait  a  little 
longer,  if  you  are  not  quite  sure/' 

"You  have  always  wanted  me?" 

"From  the  first  hour." 

"Why,  I  wonder?" 

"  Because  you  are  so  different  to  other  girls." 

Mollie  laughed,  withdrawing  her  hand. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said;  "a  sort 
of  confession.  If  you  had  asked  me  to  marry  you 
when  I  was  with  Mrs.  Stormont,  I  should  have  jumped 
at  such  a  chance.  Different  to  other  girls!  Not  I. 
I  wanted  what  you  could  give  me,  a  big  position.  I 
purred  to  myself  when  I  thought  of  being  called  *  Your 
Excellency.'  I  thought  of  the  Middleton  diamonds 
and  heaps  of  things,  but  I  didn't  think  much  of  you. 
As  for  being  in  love,  well,  I  was  in  love  with  myself - 
head  over  ears.  When  you  talked  to  me  about  your 
work,  I  was  bored,  but  I  consoled  myself  with  the 
thought  that  it  engrossed  you.  Mrs.  Stormont  hinted 
rather  plainly  that  a  husband  with  plenty  to  do  generally 
allowed  his  wife  a  free  hand." 

"Why 'do  you  tell  me  this?" 

"  I  was  like  that  not  three  months  ago,  I  may  become 


IN  THE  GARDEN  329 

like  that  again.  Father's  accident  made  me  see  things 
in  a  different  light.  And  my  talks  here  with  grand- 
father and  you " 

"And  me?" 

"  Have  driven  out  some  of  the  imps  which  possessed 
me,  but  they  might  come  back  if,  if 

"  If  ? "     He  held  her  glance  firmly. 

She  replied  resolutely,  "  If  I  married  you." 

"You  refuse  to  marry  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly. 

"Because  you  don't  care  —  enough?" 

She  remained  silent,  listening  to  his  voice,  slightly 
harsh,  and  broken  by  surprise  and  distress. 

"I  thought  you  cared.  I  swear  that  I  should  not 
have  spoken,  unless  I  believed  that  you  cared  not  for 
position  and  money  but  for  me  and  also  for  my  work. 
In  a  sense  my  work  represents  me.  If  my  work  bores 
you,  you  are  right  to  refuse  to  marry  me.  But  I  thought 
—  I  hoped  —  that  you  were  interested,  keen." 

"I  am  keen  now.     I  could  work  with  you." 

He  stared  at  her  despondently  and  muttered: 

"I  see.  You  are  too  kind  to  speak  the  brutal  truth. 
I  have  not  succeeded  in  inspiring  love." 

Her  silence  so  puzzled  him  that  he  took  her  face 
between  his  hands  and  said  masterfully: 

"I  want  an  answer;  I  must  have  an  answer.  Am 
I  personally  distasteful  to  you?  Yes  or  no?" 

"N  — no." 

"You  like  me?     Yes  or  no?" 

"Yes." 


330  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"Much  — or  little  ?" 

"Much." 

"Then  what  on  earth  stands  between  us?" 

"Father.     I  can't  leave  him." 

She  released  herself  with  dignity. 

"I  have  thought  of  your  father.  He  could  live 
with  us." 

"He  couldn't." 

"In  any  case  I  should  not  dream  of  asking  you  to 
leave  him  till  his  health  is  re-established.  And  I  am 
sure  that  he  would  be  the  last  man  in  England  to 
keep  you  tied  for  ever  to  him." 

"He  would  not  tie  me.     I  shall  tie  myself." 

"Very  well.  Let  us  become  engaged.  I  can  wait. 
I  have  waited  for  everything  worth  while  which  has 


come  to  me." 


He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  but  she  resisted.  When 
his  strength  seemed  likely  to  prevail,  she  murmured: 
"Don't  make  things  too  hard.  An  engagement  is 
impossible.  If  Father  suspected  that  I  cared,  it  would 
be  terrible,  because  then  he  would  say  to  himself  that  he 
was  keeping  me  from  you.  I  cannot  argue  about  it. 
Father  must  be  made  to  believe  that  you  have  asked 
me  to  be  your  wife,  and  that  I  have  refused  you.  You 
must  go  back  to  London  to-night,  and  please,  please, 
don't  come  to  see  me  before  you  go  abroad,  and  don't 
write!" 

As  she  spoke,  hurriedly,  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
cheeks  whose  colour  betrayed  her,  Henry  Middleton 
understood.  And  at  that  moment  he  knew  that  the 


IN  THE  GARDEN  331 

ultimate  issue  lay  with  him,  not  with  her.  If  he  chose, 
he  could  entice  her  from  what  she  conceived  to  be  her 
duty.  The  temptation  to  do  so  assailed  him  with 
tremendous  violence.  Words  came  to  his  lips  — 
specious  arguments  —  wherewith  to  tear  to  tatters 
her  resolution.  She  was  at  his  mercy.  And,  behind 
this,  surged  the  sense  of  the  injustice  to  himself.  She 
was  young;  she  could  wait;  but  he  was  middle-aged; 
and  every  year,  every  month  counted.  He  had  made 
so  sure  of  her.  A  hot  flush  coloured  his  too  pale  face 
when  he  remembered  that  he  had  hinted  to  the  Prime 
Minister  concerning  the  possibility  —  he  was  guarded 
in  all  his  statements  —  of  finding  a  wife  able  to  play 
her  part  in  the  great  work  awaiting  him  overseas.  His 
Chief,  who  was  also  his  personal  friend,  had  said  bluntly 
that  he  hoped  it  would  be  so. 

Mollie  may  have  divined  what  was  passing  through 
his  brain,  for  suddenly  she  made  a  gesture  of  protest; 
a  tiny  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  which  revealed  pathetic- 
ally her  youth  and  weakness  and  inexperience. 

Middleton,  on  the  edge  of  speech,  hesitated.  Not 
the  least  of  his  gifts  was  the  power  to  see  both  sides 
of  a  question.  In  the  House,  again  and  again,  he 
had  triumphed  by  setting  forth  with  admirable  lucidity 
and  sincerity  the  case  for  his  opponents,  demonstrating 
with  every  word  he  uttered  how  carefully  he  had  con- 
sidered the  opinions  and  facts  which  governed  them. 
Because  of  this  he  had  been  chosen  to  fill  an  appoint- 
ment which  exacted  special  understanding  of  and 
sympathy  with  conditions  alien  to  those  under  which 


332  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Anglo  Saxons  live  and  prosper.  In  brief,  he  not  only 
knew,  but  acted  upon,  the  conviction  that  the  meat  of 
one  might  be  poison  to  another. 

He  saw  clearly  that  Mollie  was  obeying  her  instinct 
and  conscience.  To  impose  upon  her  his  ideas,  how- 
ever sane  and  logical,  would  be  cruel  and  dangerous; 
for  in  all  moral  exigencies  he  scrupulously  respected 
points  of  view  other  than  his  own.  And  he  had  faith 
-  which  accounted  for  much  in  his  career  —  that  in 
the  end  conscience  justified  itself.  He  had  always 
maintained  the  infallibility  of  the  "still  small  voice." 
In  and  out  of  season  he  proclaimed  the  necessity  of 
acting  according  to  one's  lights,  whether  that  light  was 
an  arc  lamp  or  a  farthing  dip. 

He  took  Mollie's  hand,  kissed  it,  and  walked  out  of 
the  garden.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he 
did  not  look  back. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THROUGH     THE     MISTS 

A  I  SOON  as  Middleton  had  left  the  garden, 
Mollie  hastened  to  her  room,  which  was  next 
to  David's,  and  divided  from  it  by  a  thin  lath- 
and  plaster  partition.  She  moved  lightly,  but  not 
quite  noiselessly;  and  by  this  time  David's  hearing 
had  become  extraordinarily  acute.  He  knew  that 
she  had  been  with  Middleton,  and  he  was  sure  that  the 
man  who  had  succeeded  in  everything  undertaken 
would  succeed  in  the  greatest  enterprise  of  all.  It  was 
unthinkable  that  such  a  personage  would  hazard  a 
refusal. 

During  the  past  hour,  David  had  wrestled,  even  as 
Jacob,  and  like  him  in  the  darkness,  for  that  immeas- 
urable blessing,  the  sense  of  his  relation  to  what  was 
Highest  within  him,  which  told  him  that  he  must 
accept  Mollie's  marriage  not  only  with  resignation  but  in 
a  spirit  which  would  enhance  her  happiness.  Pignerol 
had  enlightened  him  concerning  Middleton.  David, 
in  short,  was  alive  to  the  fact  that  if  Mollie  was  Middle- 
ton's  complement,  Middleton,  in  even  greater  degree, 
was  the  best  possible  husband  for  her.  Pignerol  had 
laid  emphasis  on  this,  hoping  thereby  to  make  the 
separation  more  tolerable  to  the  father. 

David  heard  the  door  of  Mollie's  room  close,  and 

333 


334  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

then  the  click  of  a  turned  lock.  A  silence  followed, 
broken  by  a  faint  sob.  Immediately,  David  sat  up, 
and  the  swift  movement  brought  back  the  pain  in  the 
spine.  So  acute  was  the  attack  that  he  gasped. 
Clenching  his  teeth,  he  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  tried 
to  grope  his  way  to  the  partition.  He  came  to  the 
open  window.  Here  he  was  obliged  to  halt,  for  the 
pain  had  become  excruciating.  The  sweat  was  pour- 
ing off  him.  He  inhaled  greedily  the  fresh  evening 
air.  As  he  did  so  his  attentive  ear  caught  once  more 
an  attenuated  sob,  peculiarly  muffled.  Evidently 
Mollie's  window  was  open  also.  David  leaned  out 
of  the  casement.  After  a  few  minutes  he  knew  that 
his  child  was  lying  upon  her  bed  in  a  paroxysm  of 
weeping,  whose  violence  she  was  attempting  to  mitigate 
by  pressing  her  face  against  a  pillow.  David  crawled 
back,  forgetful  of  his  own  pain,  sensible  only  of  Mollie's 
suffering,  Mollie,  whom  he  had  always  regarded  as 
the  most  joyous  creature  in  the  world.  He  had  not 
conceived  the  possibility  of  her  suffering  like  this. 
For  this  was  what  he  had  suffered,  the  pangs  of  the 
mind  fiercer  and  more  agonizing  than  the  pangs  of  the 
body. 

What  had  happened  ? 

He  leapt  hot-foot  to  the  conclusion  that  Middleton 
had  come  and  gone  without  speaking;  he  had  made 
this  young  girl  love  him,  and  at  the  last  moment  had 
dropped  her,  because  in  her  youth  and  inexperience 
she  might  be  deemed  unfit  to  become  the  wife  of  a 
mighty  proconsul.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  David 


THROUGH  THE  MISTS  335 

was  desperately  ill,  with  a  mind  and  memory  unhinged 
by  racking  pains. 

His  impotence  served  to  increase  his  bewilderment 
and  rage.  He  desired  to  go  to  his  daughter,  but  he 
couldn't.  He  asked  himself  why  she  had  not  come  to 
him;  and,  very  miserably,  he  realized  that  his  lack  of 
sympathy,  not  hers,  kept  them  apart. 

Some  time  must  have  elapsed  when  he  heard  her 
door  open,  and  then  the  familiar  footfall  upon  the  old 
oak  boards  of  the  passage.  He  heard  her  tap  upon 
the  door.  Ah!  he  had  misjudged  her!  She  had  spared 
him  the  first  outburst  of  grief,  but  now  she  was  coming 
to  him,  for  the  comfort  which  he  yearned  to  give. 
Never  had  she  been  so  close,  so  dear,  as  at  this  instant 
when,  having  ministered  faithfully  to  him,  she  was 
about  to  demand  like  solace  at  his  hands. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  softly. 

She  entered,  kissed  him,  and  felt  his  arms  tighten 
about  her  body.  She  thought  to  herself:  "Does  he 
fear  that  I'm  going  to  leave  him  again?"  Aloud, 
she  said  quietly:  "Father,  Mr.  Middleton  has  just 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife/' 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  David.  For  the  moment, 
he  was  too  dazed  to  understand  anything  except  the 
bare  words.  Had  she  been  crying  because  she  divined 
the  price  that  he  must  pay  for  her  happiness  ?  Unable 
to  speak,  he  heard  her  continue  in  the  same  quiet,  ten- 
der tone:  "I  have  sent  him  away." 

"Why  ?"  he  gasped.  "Is  he  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
back  to  his  work  ?" 


336  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

"I  can't  marry  him.  Don't  you  understand?" 
She  laughed,  so  naturally  that  David  would  have  been 
deceived  had  he  not  heard  her  muffled  sobs.  "I'm 
much  too  fond  of  my  daddy  to  leave  him." 

"You  have  refused  Henry  Middleton  ?"  muttered 
David. 

"Yes.  Of  course,  I  feel  highly  honoured.  And  I 
had  to  tell  him  that  only  a  few  months  ago  I  would 
have  married  him  for  his  money  and  position  - 

"You  told  him  that?" 

"  It  is  perfectly  true.  I  respect  him  enormously,  but 
he's  nearly  old  enough  to  be  my  father.  He  never 
gave  me  a  chance  before.  Of  course,  I  am  very  sorry 
for  him.  But  I  shall  never  marry  except  for  love." 

David  almost  said,  "Will  you  swear  to  me  that  you 
don't  love  this  man?"  For  he  knew  that  she  loved 
him.  And  with  this  knowledge  he  knew  also  that  she 
would  not  hesitate  to  lie,  if  a  lie  became  necessary.  He 
could  not  force  a  lie  upon  her.  He  muttered  instead : 

"I  thought  you  would  take  him,  child." 

"Because  I  knew  you  thought  so,  I  couldn't  speak 
about  Mr.  Middleton.  Will  you  forgive  me?" 

Then  she  laughed  again,  very  lightly,  because  she 
was  thinking  of  her  cleverness  and  daring  as  a  skater 
over  the  thinnest  ice. 

"So  he  has  gone  ?"  said  David. 

"Yes." 

"When  does  he  leave  England?" 

"  In  about  a  fortnight.  I  -  her  voice  never 
faltered;  she  finished  a  sentence  gallantly:  "I  begged 


THROUGH  THE   MISTS  337 

him  not  to  come  back,  and  not  to  write.  He's  a  proud 
man.  He  won't.  Father,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  I  am  in  great  pain,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  dear!     Has  it  come  back  ?" 

"Yes;  I  must  fight  the  devilish  thing  alone.  Tell 
your  grandfather  to  bring  up  the  morphia  after  dinner. 
I  can't  face  another  night  of  this." 

Left  alone,  the  wrestling  began  again,  a  devastating 
civil  war  between  body  and  soul.  The  neuralgia 
became  more  acute,  as  he  struggled  in  the  darkness  to 
see  some  light,  however  faint,  which  might  guide  him 
out  of  this  wilderness.  Newsom  had  found  a  way, 
and  if  there  was  any  justification  for  Newsom,  was 
there  not  ten  times  as  much  for  him  ?  He  stood  between 
Mollie  and  happiness.  Nevertheless,  he  knew  that 
his  self-destruction  would  destroy  Mollie's  happiness. 
The  doctor  had  said  that  life  lingered  long  when  the 
desire  to  live  was  predominant.  David  remembered 
that  from  the  moment  when  he  had  fully  regained 
consciousness  and  realization  of  his  condition  he  had 
resolved  to  live  to  produce  his  best  work.  Was  it 
possible  that  this  overmastering  passion  had  kept 
body  and  soul  together  ?  And  if,  now,  he  desired  as 
passionately  to  die,  would  not  that  desire  find  ful- 
filment ?  The  doctor  had  imposed  conditions.  But 
he  was  in  no  wise  bound  to  accept  them. 

Mollie  had  dissembled  with  him;  he  would  dis- 
semble with  her.  How  easy  and  simple  to  disobey  the 
doctor.  He  had  done  so  already.  Bathed  in  sweat, 
he  had  remained  by  an  open  window.  His  throbbing 


338  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

head  and  hot  dry  hands  told  him  that  mischief  had 
been  accomplished. 

When  Pignerol  came  upstairs,  he  found  him  suffer- 
ing excruciating  pain.  The  Professor  administered 
a  medium  dose  of  morphia,  which  took  effect  imme- 
diately. David  said,  "What  a  wonderful  drug!" 
and  as  he  spoke  the  lines  of  pain  seemed  to  melt  out 
of  his  face,  leaving  it  smooth  and  placid.  He  sank 
back  upon  his  pillow  smiling;  and  the  smile  lingered 
after  he  had  fallen  asleep.  Pignerol  sat  down  beside 
the  bed,  gazing  at  the  fine  head  upon  the  pillow,  believ- 
ing with  deep  conviction  that  he  could  help  this  sorely 
stricken  soul,  not  yet  knowing  how  such  help  could  be 
transmitted,  but  assured  that  a  way  would  be  found. 
He  attempted  to  compose  his  mind  with  a  view  of  mak- 
ing it  recipient  to  any  message  from  the  Divine  Energy 
and  Wisdom  within  and  without.  After  long  practice 
he  had  acquired  a  power  of  sensitizing  himself  into  a 
condition  of  hypnosis.  Upon  such  occasions  he  gen- 
erally ended  by  falling  into  a  refreshing  sleep,  from 
which  he  awakened  conscious  of  renewed  vitality  and 
intelligence. 

To-night  he  failed  to  compose  his  mind.  And  the 
thoughts  which  he  tried  to  repel  assailed  him  with 
such  persistence  that  finally  he  admitted  himself  van- 
quished, and  allowed  them  undisputed  dominion.  He 
was  wise  and  modest  enough  to  believe  that  inasmuch 
as  these  thoughts  concerned  David  they  might  have 
invaded  him  with  definite  purpose.  Moreover,  they 
presented  themselves  in  order,  with  a  continuity  super- 


THROUGH  THE  MISTS  339 

latively  interesting  and  exciting.  The  first  thought 
embodied  itself  in  the  profound  regret  that  David's 
memory  of  his  best  work  had  become  intermittent  and 
inconsequent,  a  mere  mutilated  fragment  of  a  once 
splendid  whole.  From  this  Pignerol  passed  to  a  con- 
sideration of  other  fragments  of  remembrance  con- 
cerning the  period  when  David's  life  was  suspended. 
These  ranged  themselves  in  his  mind:  the  recollection 
of  two  peasants,  the  finding  of  the  pocket-book,  the 
placing  of  the  bodies  in  the  cart,  the  visit  to  the  club, 
and  the  still  more  extraordinary  experience  in  Mollie's 
bedroom.  Pignerol  had  never  doubted  that  a  remark- 
able psychical  experience  had  taken  place.  Granting 
this,  the  question  arose:  could  such  an  experience  be 
explained  scientifically,  or  did  it  transcend  human 
understanding  ?  He  decided  that  this  depended  upon 
the  evidence  concerning  David's  condition  after  the 
accident.  If,  as  had  been  believed,  David  did  die, 
then  the  fact  of  his  return  to  life  was  overwhelmingly 
transcendent:  a  miracle  comparable  only  to  Christ's 
resurrection.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  life  had  been 
merely  suspended,  Pignerol's  own  observations  and 
researches  would  establish  the  journeyings  of  the 
spirit  as  one  more  instance  amongst  scores  of  similar 
spiritual  excursions  with  which  every  psychologist  was 
familiar. 

The  conclusion  was  inevitable  that  David's  death, 
if  he  had  died,  could  never  be  proved.  Sarthe,  after 
exhibiting  the  usual  tests,  had  pronounced  David  to 
be  dead.  Now  he  was  as  emphatic  in  asserting  that 


340  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

he  had  not  died.  Sarthe,  with  materialistic  views, 
could  adopt  no  other  position. 

Pignerol  turned  to  confront  another  speculation. 
Waiving  the  impossibility  of  demonstrating  the  unde- 
monstrable,  it  was  worth  while  to  attempt  to  divine  the 
reason  of  David's  return.  David  believed  that  he  had 
come  back  to  produce  "Solomon's  Garden."  And  well 
might  any  intelligent  man  believe  that  reason  to  be  ade- 
quate. Nevertheless,  the  fact  obtruded  itself  that 
"Solomon's  Garden"  might  not  be  produced.  As 
salient  was  the  change  in  Mollie.  Was  it,  therefore, 
justifiable  to  assume  that  the  real  reason  of  poor 
David's  extended  lease  of  life  was  other  than  what  he 
deemed  it  to  be  ? 

Afterward,  Pignerol  admitted  that  these  thoughts 
and  speculations  may  have  engrossed  him  for  an  hour. 
And  then  he  made  a  second  attempt  to  compose  his 
mind,  always  with  the  same  end  in  view  of  making  it 
recipient  to  some  message.  He  fell  asleep,  waking 
suddenly  to  find  David  sitting  up  in  bed  with  his  sight- 
less eyes  wide  open  and  shining  with  a  curiously  alert 
and  perceptive  expression.  Pignerol  adn  its  that  he 
overlooked  the  fact  of  David's  blindness.  Hardly 
awake  himself,  with  his  own  sensibilities  focussed 
upon  David's  face,  he  forgot  what  had  passed  before 
he  fell  asleep,  forgot  that  David  was  under  the  influence 
of  morphia,  and  without  reflection,  as  if  in  obedience  to 
some  imperative  command,  addressed  David  by  name. 

David  answered  at  once: 

"Yes?" 


THROUGH  THE  MISTS  341 

The  monosyllable  was  interrogative,  as  if  the  speaker 
expected  to  be  asked  questions. 

At  this  moment  Pignerol  knew  that  David  was 
under  the  influence  of  a  drug  whose  peculiar  properties 
are  not  yet  wholly  understood,  and  he  perceived  as 
instantly  that  the  morphia  had  awakened  David's 
mind. 

"Can  you  see  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  David. 

He  spoke  in  his  ordinary  voice,  but  Pignerol  noticed 
an  inflection  of  positiveness. 

"What  sort  of  jacket  am  I  wearing?" 

"Your  old  smoking-coat." 

Pignerol  thrust  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  the  coat. 
He  carried  notebooks  in  all  his  coats.  Furtively,  he 
slipped  a  notebook  onto  his  knees  and  opened  it. 
David's  eyes  never  left  his,  and  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  see  the  notebook,  supposing  that  he  was  not 
blind. 

"What  have  I  got  on  my  knees  ?" 

"A   notebook." 

"Just  so.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  few  questions, 
David,  and  I  shall  take  down  your  replies." 

"Certainly." 

At  this  moment  Mollie  softly  opened  the  door. 
Pignerol  looked  round,  with  his  fingers  upon  his  lips; 
then  he  signed  to  Mollie  to  sit  down.  As  she  passed 
him  she  whispered:  "I  heard  voices.  Why  does 
father  look  so  odd?" 

"He  is  in  a  trance." 


342  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

She  sat  down  behind  the  shaded  lamp.  Pignerol 
asked  the  first  vital  question. 

"Do  you  remember  the  accident  to  the  car  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"What   happened   immediately   afterward?" 

Pignerol  set  down  in  shorthand  his  own  questions 
and  David's  answers.  In  the  shadows  Mollie  sat, 
elbows  on  knees,  leaning  forward  with  her  head  between 
her  hands  and  an  expression  of  amazement  upon  her 
face. 

"I  found  myself  standing  near  the  car.  Then  I 
discovered  that  father  was  dead;  then  I  discovered 
that  I  was  dead." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  that  you  were  dead  ?" 

"Of  course  I  was  dead." 

Pignerol  paused,  knowing  the  importance  of  control- 
ling his  feelings.  Any  manifestation  of  them  might 
awaken  David,  perhaps  to  his  injury,  and  most  cer- 
tainly to  the  ruin  of  this  experience. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  happened  after  you  realized 
that  you  were  dead  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Try  to  tell  me  everything." 

David  obeyed.  His  voice,  quiet,  clear,  slightly 
monotonous,  never  faltered.  The  story  which  he  told 
has  been  set  down  already.  It  was  taken,  indeed, 
from  Pignerol's  notebook,  and  modified  in  form  only. 
From  beginning  to  end  Pignerol's  pencil  followed  the 
amazing  narrative.  David  never  paused;  and  Pig- 
nerol dared  not  interrupt  him.  Afterward,  he  thought 


THROUGH  THE   MISTS  343 

of  questions  he  might  have  asked.  At  the  time  he  was 
sensible  only  of  a  conviction  that  David  was  describing 
minutely  and  accurately  personal  experiences  which 
must  have  happened. 

When  he  had  finished  the  recital,  concluding  with 
his  lapse  into  unconsciousness,  David's  eyes  closed; 
his  head  sank  back  upon  the  pillow;  he  breathed 
gently,  like  a  child  asleep. 

Pignerol  beckoned  Mollie  to  follow  him  into  the 
passage.  There  he  whispered:  "We  can  leave  him; 
he  will  sleep  for  some  hours,  five  or  six  at  least.  Come 
to  my  room." 

They  went  downstairs. 

"Was  he  delirious?"  asked  Mollie. 

"No." 

He  saw  that  Mollie  was  trembling.  Tenderly,  he 
placed  her  in  a  chair,  sat  down  beside  her,  and  said 
softly:  "A  very  wonderful  experience  has  just  taken 
place,  so  wonderful  that  I  can  hardly  realize  it.  I  shall 
reread  aloud  these  notes." 

When  he  finished,  Mollie  said  eagerly,  "It  is  true  ?" 

"  Part  of  it  we  know  is  true,"  replied  Pignerol. 

"It  is  true  that  upon  the  night  of  the  accident  I  was 
reading  a  vile  book,  it  is  true  that  I  was  thinking  of 
nothing  except  myself,  of  how  much  I  could  grab,  of  the 
splash  that  I  might  make  ?  And  if  that  part  is  true, 
isn't  it  all  true  ?  Why  do  you  not  answer  ?" 

"The  utterances  of  persons  in  the  hypnotic  trance 
are  worthless  as  evidence.  That  has  been  proved.  If 
I  had  said  to  your  father,  'You  are  John  Sebastian 


344  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Bach/  he  would  have  replied,  'Yes,  I  am/  He  knows 
about  Bach,  and  believing  himself  to  be  Bach,  he  would 
have  described  with  accuracy  what  he  had  read  about 
Bach's  life.  On  the  other  hand,  had  I  imposed  upon 
him  the  conviction  that  he  was,  let  us  say,  Themis- 
tocles,  then  his  description  would  have  been  inaccurate, 
because  he  has  never  studied  Greek  history.  Your 
father,  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation,  may  have 
witnessed  the  picking  up  of  his  body.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  he  did.  He  may  have  made  this  astonishing 
pilgrimage  to  England;  he  may  have  looked  into  your 
heart.  But  -  He  paused,  before  he  continued  in 
a  different  voice:  "If  the  rest  is  true,  if  he  did  cross 
to  the  other  side,  why,  then,  a  new  knowledge  con- 
cerning things  hitherto  unseen  carries  us  on  and  upward 
to  heights  I  cannot  measure." 

"I  believe  that  father  died,"  said  Mollie  fervently. 
"  Frcm  the  bottom  of  my  soul  I  believe  it." 

Pignerol  kissed  her.  And  then  he  locked  up  the 
notebook.  If  the  record  was  true,  David,  as  a  dis- 
embodied spirit,  had  returned  to  earth  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  cleansing  his  daughter's  soul.  The  pro- 
duction of  the  oratorio  had  not  been  considered. 

The  wonder  of  the  matter  to  a  man  whose  leisure  had 
been  spent  in  the  endeavour  to  find  a  scientific  reason 
behind  phenomena  which  to-day  we  rightly  term  super- 
normal rather  than  supernatural,  lay  in  the  fact  that 
David's  mission  had  been  accomplished  so  far  as 
Mollie  was  concerned,  and  accomplished  without 
conscious  effort  on  the  father's  part.  Pignerol  did  not 


THROUGH  THE  MISTS  345 

doubt  that  Mollie  would  advance  upon  the  narrow  path 
till  it  widened  into  a  fairway.  Trials  and  tribulations 
would  beset  her.  But  she  would  go  on.  Of  that  he 
felt  assured.  And  with  this  conviction  illuminating 
his  mind,  he  concentrated  his  thought  upon  the  father 
still  struggling  with  earthly  ambitions,  still  enmeshed 
in  the  nets  of  his  own  spinning. 

"When  will  you  tell  father  ?" 

"You  must  leave  that    responsibility    to    me." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    AWAKENING 

MOLLIE     returned    to     her   father's    room, 
and    'sat     down     beside    his     bed.      His 
expression    had    not     changed:     the    smile 
remained  inexpressibly  tender  and    serene ;    the   lines 
traced    by    pain    upon     his    face    seemed     to    have 
vanished. 

Presently  Mollie  knelt  down  to  pray  that  the  faith 
which  flamed  in  her  might  never  be  extinguished,  and 
with  the  reiteration  of  the  prayer  she  became  sensible 
of  an  oppression  in  the  atmosphere.  When  she  rose 
from  her  knees,  she  discovered  that  there  was  a  reason 
for  this.  A  storm  impended.  She  went  to  the  window 
and  opened  it  wide.  Outside,  the  air  was  stagnant  and 
heavy;  Sherborne  seemed  to  sleep  beneath  the  spell 
of  an  uncanny  silence.  The  room  overlooked  the 
garden,  and  Mollie  could  just  see  the  tower  of  the 
Abbey  Church  black  against  a  darkening  sky.  Light- 
ning flared  to  the  right  of  Honeycomb  Hill;  and  after 
many  seconds  a  distant  peal  of  thunder  indicated  that 
a  storm  was  approaching  from  the  south-west.  The 
second  and  third  flashes  were  more  vivid;  the  thunder 
followed  quicker.  Mollie  wondered  whether  the  noise 
would  awaken  her  father;  but  he  lay  still,  so  still  that 
she  leaned  over  him  with  the  fear  tearing  at  her  heart 

346 


THE  AWAKENING  347 

that  he  might  be  dead.  To  her  relief  he  breathed  as 
placidly  as  a  child. 

She  returned  to  the  window. 

Ever  since  she  could  remember,  she  had  been  afraid 
of  storms.  As  the  thunder  roared  louder  she  experi- 
enced the  familiar  terror,  the  desire  to  hide,  to  rush 
to  her  own  room,  to  bury  her  head  beneath  thick 
blankets.  For  the  first  time  she  fought  this  impulse, 
remaining  at  the  window,  pale  and  trembling.  The 
storm  was  increasing  in  violence  and  likely  to  burst 
with  fury  upon  the  town.  So  far  it  had  been  accom- 
panied by  neither  wind  nor  rain. 

She  hoped  that  Pignerol  would  come  to  her,  but  she 
remembered  with  a  qualm  that  he  was  the  soundest  of 
sleepers.  He  boasted  that  thunder  never  disturbed  him. 

At  this  moment  she  reflected  that  the  storm  would 
put  to  the  test  her  newly  formed  resolutions.  Had 
she  not  promised  her  grandfather  that  she  would  walk 
upon  her  self-appointed  path  —  serenely  ? 

Thunder  and  lightning  began  to  crash  and  flash 
simultaneously.  Mollie's  hands  went  halfway  to  her 
eyes.  Then,  with  a  tremendous  effort  her  arms  fell 
and  she  stared  valiantly  into  the  darkness  and  silence. 
The  lightning  seemed  to  strike  the  pinnacles  of  the 
tower;  the  thunder  pealed  unceasingly.  Then  the 
wind  rushed  down  in  fury,  shrieking  through  the  trees 
in  the  garden.  Five  minutes  later  the  masses  of  black 
cloud  were  rent  asunder  and  a  tropical  rain  descended 
in  torrents. 

The  storm  passed. 


348  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

David  still  slept.  From  the  wet  garden  rose  the 
penetrating  smell  of  earth  and  the  fragrance  of  crushed 
herbs.  The  stars  shone  with  steadier  radiance.  And 
into  Mollie's  soul  flowed  the  glad  sense  of  triumph, 
of  a  victory  over  the  flesh.  The  storm  had  strengthened 
her.  Its  terrors  were  put  to  flight,  never  to  return. 

She  left  the  window.  Gazing  at  David,  she  thought 
of  her  mother,  now  so  wonderfully  alive,  such  an 
unbreakable  link  between  the  here  and  the  hereafter. 
Mary  had  sent  back  David  to  save  her! 

The  hours  glided  by,  for  Mollie  was  on  an  amazing 
journey,  beholding  through  her  father's  eyes  that  other 
side  in  which  hitherto  she  had  taken  but  the  vaguest  and 
most  shadowy  interest.  Now,  in  panoramic  splendour, 
it  was  revealed,  no  mirage,  but  eternal  substance. 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  David  woke.  To  the 
left  of  Jerusalem  Hill  a  silvery  line  transmuted  itself 
into  gold.  Mollie,  more  alive  than  she  had  ever  been 
to  the  significance  of  a  new  day,  stood  beside  her 
father.  As  the  lids  of  his  sightless  eyes  raised  them- 
selves, she  took  his  hand.  He  murmured  her  name. 

"I  am  here,"  she  answered. 

He  said  slowly,  "  I've  had  a  wonderful  dream." 

"A  dream,"  she  repeated  softly. 

"I  saw  your  mother;  I  heard  her  voice.  I  went  to 
her;  she  has  never  come  to  me,  Mollie." 

"Tell  me  about  your  dream." 

He  did  not  answer.  A  frown  settled  upon  his  fore- 
head; the  lines  deepened  about  his  mouth  and  eyes. 


THE  AWAKENING  349 

Then  he  said  wearily:  "I  heard  music,  the  music  I 
want,  but  it  has  gone."  At  the  end  of  a  long  pause 
he  added  feebly,  "There  is  nothing  —  nothing." 

She  kissed  him  and  asked  if  he  was  in  pain. 

"The  pain  has  gone  too,"  he  replied  in  a  firmer 
voice.  "  But  I'm  tired,  worn  out.  What  time  is  it  ? 
When  did  you  come  in?" 

"I  have  been  here  all  night." 

"Then  you  must  lie  down  at  once.  Perhaps  I 
shall  sleep  again,  go  back  to  my  dreams.  Leave  me, 
child." 

She  went  to  Pignerol's  room,  and  told  him  that  David 
remembered  nothing. 

Throughout  that  day  and  the  next  he  remained  in  a 
condition  of  exhaustion,  taking  little  nourishment,  but, 
fortunately,  suffering  no  pain.  He  never  mentioned 
the  oratorio. 

Upon  the  third  day  Pignerol  said  to  the  doctor: 
"Can  you  account  for  this  condition  of  apathy  and 
indifference  ?" 

The  doctor  replied  irritably:  "I  don't  like  it.  That 
sort  of  thing  indicates  extreme  debility.  His  vitality, 
you  understand,  justified  a  favourable  prognosis,  but 
now  his  vitality  is  failing.  The  artistic  temperament 
is  hard  to  deal  with.  If  he  could  be  interested  in  some- 
thing apart  from  this  confounded  music!" 

"I  know  of  something,"  said  Pignerol  slowly  —  "a 
communication  which  I  must  make  soon.  It  is  uncon- 
nected with  his  music,  and  it  might,  it  must  rouse  him." 


350  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

:<  Then  the  sooner  you  make  it  the  better." 

Pignerol  waited  another  twenty-four  hours.  And 
then  David  himself  offered  an  opportunity.  He  said 
resignedly:  "I  am  sliding  out  of  life;  I  know  it.  It 
will  be  a  blessed  release  for  you,  for  Mollie,  and  for  me. 
My  God,  how  tired  I  am!  And  if  I  could  find  rest,  even 
if  it  meant  extinction  for  ever  and  ever,  I  should  be 
satisfied.  All  to-day  I  have  been  thinking  of  poor 
Newsom  at  the  bottom  of  that  pool.  I  am  sinking 
as  he  did,  down,  down,  down  —  to  the  bottom  of 
everything.  When  I  reach  the  bottom  my  only  hope 
is  that  I  may  stay  there." 

Pignerol  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"David,"  he  said,  very  solemnly,  "how  blind  you 
are!" 

"  Blind  —  yes.  I  envy  you  your  faith.  What  seems 
to  have  been  revealed  to  you  has  not  been  revealed  to 


me." 


"Are  you  sure  of  that?     Think  well." 

"I  have  had  dreams.     That's  all." 

"Dreams?"  he  repeated.  "Perhaps  life  here  is 
only  a  dream,  a  nightmare  to  many.  You  have 
dreamed  all  your  life,  David;  now  you  are  about  to 
wake  up." 

Something  in  his  tone,  a  deep  solemnity  and  impres- 
siveness,  startled  David.  He  said  quickly: 

"  Wake  up  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? " 

Pignerol  answered  the  question.  From  time  to 
time,  as  he  read  aloud  what  had  been  set  down,  exclama- 
tions burst  from  David's  lips.  Otherwise  the  recital 


THE  AWAKENING  351 

was  not  interrupted.  When  Pignerol  had  finished,  he 
perceived  that  David  was  too  moved  to  speak.  He 
lay  impassive,  with  eyes  shut,  but  from  beneath  the 
heavy  lids  tears  trickled  down  his  wasted  cheeks. 
Then  his  hand,  lying  upon  the  counterpane,  sought 
Pignerors,  and  the  first  words  fluttered  from  his  lips. 

"You  believe  this  to  be  true?" 

"I  do." 

"I  came  back  on  MolhVs  account?" 

"Yes." 

"And  in  my  blind  folly  I  thought  that  I  was  spared 
to  produce  'Solomon's  Garden  V 

"  You  were  spared  to  turn  a  wilderness  into  a  garden, 
You  looked  into  MolhVs  soul  and  saw  weeds  of  your 
planting.  If  you  could  look  again,  what  a  change  you 
would  perceive.  My  son,  if  the  lesser  triumph  of 
producing  a  masterpiece  is  to  be  denied  to  you,  will 
not  this  infinitely  greater  triumph  suffice?" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  the  genius 
in  David  Archdale  revealed  itself:  the  uprush  of  all 
that  was  finest  in  his  real  self.  Through  the  darkness 
which  had  obscured  the  colours  and  forms  which  he 
had  been  privileged  to  transpose  into  lovely  harmonies, 
he  saw  the  real  Solomon's  Garden,  the  Caanan  of  per- 
fect Love  into  which  he  in  this  life  would  not  enter. 
And  at  the  same  moment  he  realized  that  the  setting 
forth  in  music  of  what  he  saw  might  be  accomplished 
by  him,  but  not  here  or  now.  In  his  glorious  youth 
he  had  come  within  measurable  distance  of  such  a 
triumph.  Worn  out,  blind,  beset  by  mocking  echoes 


352  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

of  music  unworthy  of  his  best  powers,  was  he  physically 
or  mentally  able  to  rehabilitate  himself  with  the  energy, 
the  vitality,  the  endurance  which  such  a  labour  would 
exact  ?  Sorrowfully  he  told  himself  that  this  was  his 
just  and  inevitable  punishment.  The  burning  of  the 
score  by  his  own  hand,  unwittingly,  had  but  fore- 
shadowed this  conscious  burnt  offering  of  ambition  and 
hope.  Humbly  he  bowed  his  head  and  answered 
Pignerol : 

"It  will  suffice." 

After  another  silence  he  spoke  again,  and  his  voice 
was  stronger. 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  authoritatively  of  Mollie's 
triumph  ?" 

"You  have  quick  perceptions,  David.  Can't  you 
guess  what  Mollie  has  sacrificed  for  you  ?" 

"  I  know  that  she  loves  Henry  Middleton." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

David  explained.  At  the  end  he  said  faintly:  "I 
must  be  alone.  I  cannot  see  Mollie  yet.  God  have 
mercy  on  me  for  a  blind,  selfish  fool!" 

Pignerol  rose,  gazing  at  David's  face.  Then  he 
bent  down  and  whispered: 

"  'Let  thy  soul  walk  softly  in  thee  as  a  saint  in  Heaven  unshod; 
For  to  be  alone  with  silence  is  to  be  alone  with  God/" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE     HEAVENLY     NOTE 

BEFORE  many  days  had  passed,  it  became 
evident  that  David's  strength  of  body  was 
not  coming  back,  although  his  mind  seemed 
to  gain  power  and  lucidity.  The  neuralgia  vanished. 
To  satisfy  what  the  doctor  spoke  of  as  a  "public 
demand,"  a  famous  consultant  was  called  in.  He 
admitted,  reluctantly,  that  nothing  could  be  done. 
The  shock  of  the  accident,  apart  from  the  injuries 
to  the  head  and  limbs,  must  have  affected  the  heart, 
whose  action  was  failing.  After  the  consultation 
David  said: 

"So  I  shan't  make  old  bones  after  all  ?" 

The  doctors  exchanged  a  sharp  glance.  Before 
either  had  time  to  answer,  David  added:  "I  am  glad 
it  is  so.  Shall  I  have  to  wait  long  ?" 

"Not  very  long,  I  think,"  replied  the  great  man. 

They  went  away,  and  Mollie  came  to  him.  During 
the  next  hour  David  talked  of  Mary.  Out  of  the 
shadows  of  the  past  she  emerged  once  more,  a  flesh- 
and-blood  reality. 

Presently  David  repeated  what  the  consultant  had 
said.  Then,  with  a  smile  which  Mollie  could  not  inter- 
pret, he  added  quickly:  "What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  can't 
see  you  happily  married  before  I  go!" 

353 


354  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Mollie  made  no  reply,  not  daring  to  speak.  David 
continued : 

"You  won't  mourn  for  me,  child?" 

"Father!" 

"You  must  know  that  I  am  happier  than  I  have 
ever  been  since  your  mother  left  me." 

"  I  do  know  that." 

"  You  believe  that  it  is  well  with  me  ?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"  Because  of  that  you  mustn't  grieve." 

"I  shall  try  not  to,"  she  answered  unsteadily,  still 
staring  at  the  smile  upon  David's  lips. 

Two  days  afterward,  Middleton  arrived,  and  was 
shown  into  David's  room.  Mollie  had  no  idea  what 
was  about  to  happen.  As  soon  as  David  felt  the  grasp 
of  Middleton's  hand  he  said  eagerly: 

"Have  you  got  the  license  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Everything  is  arranged?" 

"Everything." 

"Mollie  does  not  know.  If  she  should  think  that 
I  have  forced  her  hand,  you  will  remind  her  that  she 
dissembled  with  me.  This  is  my  little  revenge:  a 
Roland  for  her  Oliver.  The  Professor  has  managed 
admirably. 

"Yes." 

"You  sail  next  week.  She  will  soon  join  you.  At 
this  moment  she  is  in  the  garden,  gathering  flowers 
for  her  own  wedding.  Tell  her  that  you  have  come 


THE   HEAVENLY   NOTE  355 

here  to  marry  her,  and  that  I  am  going  to  have  the 
great  pleasure  of  giving  her  to  you." 

"How  generous  you  have  been!" 

"  Mollie  will  explain  my  generosity.  My  own  mar- 
ried life  was  happy,  but  it  might  have  been  happier 
if  I  had  realized  how  tremendously  the  so-called  little 
things  count.  But,  if  you  can't  skim  all  the  cream  you 
want,  don't  let  disappointment  sour  the  milk  that  is 
left.  I  skimmed  the  cream,  and  it  disagreed  with  me. 
Looking  back,  I  see  that  my  triumphs  were  so  small. 
Lying  here,  I  think  of  the  touch  of  my  wife's  hand,  the 
smile  that  never  failed,  the  voice  that  was  always  kind. 
Those  were  her  triumphs,  and  I  hardly  saw  them 
through  the  mist  of  my  own  ambitions.  But  they 
carried  her  from  Earth  to  Heaven.  Mollie  will  tell 
you  how  I  have  come  to  know  that  those  who  are 
faithful  in  small  things  do  enter  into  the  joy  of  the 
Lord,  here  and  hereafter." 

The  marriage  took  place  next  day,  in  David's  room, 
beside  his  bed.  Once  Mollie  had  dreamed  of  a  gor- 
geous ceremony  in  Westminster  Abbey.  But  this 
covenant,  ratified  in  the  presence  of  a  dying  man,  and 
by  reason  of  that  divested  of  aught  that  might  distract 
the  mind  from  its  spiritual  significance,  became  indeed 
a  solemn,  ineffaceable  sacrament. 

Soon  after  the  ceremony,  Middleton  was  obliged  to 
return  to  London,  where  affairs  not  to  be  neglected  nor 
postponed  claimed  his  undivided  attention.  Mollie 
remained  with  her  father. 


356  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

He  lingered  longer  than  was  expected.  The  last  days 
were  passed  in  a  serene  tranquillity  of  body  and  spirit, 
as  if  he  were  sinking  out  of  cloudless  skies  into  a  smooth 
and  illimitable  ocean.  Many  old  friends  came  to  wish 
him  farewell:  the  burly  Lorimer,  the  gay  Boileau, 
DafFy-down-Dilly,  Thelluson,  and  Wrest.  Each  after- 
noon he  was  carried  into  the  garden  whose  flowers  were 
but  the  symbols  of  the  myriad  beautiful  thoughts  and 
actions  which  during  long  years  had  interpenetrated  it. 
To  David  the  place  was  holy  ground.  Apart  from 
any  personal  association  or  experience,  it  was  eloquent 
of  the  supreme  truth  that  the  infinitely  great  may  be 
contained  in  the  infinitely  small.  It  lay  in  a  busy  city, 
in  it  and  of  it  and  yet  apart  from  it.  Year  after  year 
the  flowers  bloomed  and  vanished :  resolving  themselves 
into  other  forms  of  life.  Year  after  year,  attacked  by 
weed  and  blight,  they  were  delivered  by  faithful  hands. 
The  garden  seemed  to  remain  the  same;  but  it  was  not 
the  same,  save  in  its  expression  of  energy  rightly  directed 
and  controlled.  David  and  Mary  had  created  just 
such  another  paradise  out  of  the  tiny  plot  behind  their 
cottage.  Afterward,  when  riches  came  to  them  so 
abundantly,  there  had  been  no  garden,  no  sanctuary. 
And,  deprived  of  it,  unable  to  bloom  without  it,  Mary 
had  wilted  and  passed  away.  She  might  have  lived,  if 
a  garden  had  been  provided.  David  remembered  what 
she  had  said  about  the  rich  entering  the  heaven  that  is 
on  earth,  which  may  be  described,  perhaps,  as  the 
garden  of  the  soul.  He  thought  of  world-famous 
gardens,  the  epitome  of  all  that  science  and  art  and 


THE   HEAVENLY  NOTE  357 

wealth  can  achieve,  wherein  wander  scores  of  restless, 
uneasy  men  and  women.  Truly  the  rich  have  no 
sanctuaries  because  they  bring  their  cares  into 
them. 

Concerning  this  David  said  a  few  words  to  Mollie. 
Middleton  had  sent  to  his  wife  a  string  of  fine  pearls 
which  she  placed  in  her  father's  hands,  so  that  he  might 
feel  their  size  and  texture.  Presently  she  saw  a  shadow 
of  a  frown  upon  his  forehead. 

"You  are  not  in  pain  ?" 

"No.  But  I'm  trying  to  see  you  as  a  great  lady. 
I'm  thinking  of  'Her  Excellency!'  Your  life,  Mollie, 
will  be  filled  to  the  brim  with  excitements  and  activities; 
but  Henry  and  you  must  have  a  sanctuary  into  which 
you  can  go  alone.  And  in  it  think  sometimes  of  my 
'Solomon's  Garden'." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  already  as  that." 

He  smiled,  as  if  he  could  see  the  garden. 

The  end  came  upon  a  cloudless  afternoon  in  mid- 
October.  Few  leaves  had  fallen  from  the  trees,  and 
the  air  in  the  garden  was  warm  and  fragrant,  as  if 
summer  still  lingered,  loath  to  leave  the  place  and  the 
people.  Pignerol  had  been  reading  to  David  and 
Mollie  passages  from  his  book,  a  study  of  the  seen 
mounting  step  by  step  into  the  empyrean  of  the  unseen, 
and  including  a  consideration  of  the  human  personality 
after  death. 

When  Pignerol  finished  reading,  David  said:  "After 
I  am  gone  I  should  like  my  wonderful  experience  to  be 


358  THE  OTHER  SIDE 

given  to  the  world,  but  let  it  be  set  forth  anonymously. 
It  would  hurt  Mollie  if  I  am  spoken  of  as  a  blind  vision- 
ary; a  few  may  accept  my  story  as  true,  and  think  what 
it  will  mean  to  them/' 

"Yes,"  said  Pignerol.  "And  the  thought  of  the  few 
to-day  becomes  the  talk  of  the  many  to-morrow." 
Then  turning  over  a  page  of  his  manuscript  he  read 
aloud:  "'The  great  awakening  has  come  to  some  of  us, 
the  knowledge  that  death  involves  no  change  whatever. 
We  carry  hence  the  same  desires,  the  same  ambitions; 
we  make  here  our  future  heaven  or  hell,  and  we  find  it 
there  when  we  pass  over/  ' 

David  shivered. 

"  Are  you  cold,  father  ?     Shall  we  go  indoors  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

She  noticed  that  his  voice  was  weaker,  and  the  blood 
ebbed  from  his  face. 

"I  descended  into  hell,"  he  murmured,  "and  then  I 
ascended  into  heaven." 

He  lay  silent,  but  Pignerol  noticed  that  his  breathing 
had  become  laboured.  He  touched  David's  wrist; 
the  pulse  fluttered  and  stopped,  and  then  fluttered 
again.  Pignerol  glanced  at  Mollie  and  made  a  sign. 

"Listen!"  said  David. 

He  had  opened  his  eyes.  They  were  still  limpidly 
blue,  the  eyes  of  the  boy  who  had  sung  anthems  in  the 
Abbey  Church. 

"Do  you  hear  anything?" 

They  listened.  From  without  the  garden  floated  the 
familiar  sounds  of  the  ancient  town:  a  boy's  laugh, 


THE  HEAVENLY  NOTE  359 

the  rattle  of  a  cart,  the  twittering  of  the  sparrows, 
the  hum  of  voices  in  the  street. 

"What  do  you  hear  ?"  asked  Mollie. 

"The  heavenly  note/' 

Then,  in  a  loud,  clear,  joyous  tone,  he  exclaimed: 

"Mary!" 

He  struggled  to  sit  up,  extending  both  his  arms, 
looking  straight  into  the  sun.  Involuntarily,  Mollie 
followed  that  swift  glance;  and  at  the  same  moment 
David's  head  fell  back  upon  the  pillow. 


THE    END 


LOAN  DEFT 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


^D  2lA-507n-9,' 
•6889slO)476B 


